In the end it was all he could do. The rain was pooling in his boots by the cabin door, mud from the forest still caked to the soles.  He looked again, from the path to the road out beyond and back again, wiping the sweat from his eyes with a sleeve cuff. It wouldn’t be long now. Any minute it would cross the clearing and be at the door. There wasn’t much time.

One minute story idea. Prompted by a rainy Sunday afternoon of writer’s block.

Photo by Aaron Alvarado

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