Here we go again – hundred word stories (more or less), based on the latest Friday Fictioneers photo prompt chosen by the one and only Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.
When it’s foggy, I remember. I had gone for a walk, but soon I couldn’t see where I was. I climbed to the top of a hill, where the fog was thinner, and then he appeared. At first he was only a moving blur. I watched as he came closer and took shape.
He was young, but his clothes belonged to another century. He started when he first saw me, and then shrugged and accepted my appearance, strange though I looked to him. We talked for minutes, or hours – I don’t know – until the fog lifted. He faded with it.
For years, I searched for him every foggy day, but magic only happens once. At least he left me a token, my dear child. If only I could have left something with him.