Every morning, after coffee that did not warm her, toast she did not taste, Lucille pulled on her coat and walked to the cemetery. Today she bought pink tea roses and let the vendor keep the change. Snow dusted the grave. She fingered the pills, placed the last flowers before the tiny headstone.
A very micro flash for the weekly Press53 Pokrompt.
Inspired by LAST FLOWERS, sung by the incomparable Thom Yorke of Radiohead.