by Sparks In Shadow
Not knowing the way home, Wendell lamented his failure, top hat askew, ascot undone (white silk now gray), lapels dusty.
He’d lost his cane with the silver inlay — his initials in script amid freehand flourishes against deepest ebony that fit his grip, indulged his eye. He’d search for it along the road beside the misshapen tree, returning to one tenant or another, over the years, who (ignoring him) grumbled about the door he never remembered to shut.
Despite the cabin’s rustic charm, he would rather’ve met fate on a road closer to home. But one must reside in some place.
The prompt was the photo from Julia.