I don’t remember his name, but I remember his house. Or, I thought I did. That was until Grace answered the door.
The old woman who’d lived there for decades.
So I tried next door, and a few doors down, even across the street.
But here’s the thing. I’m sure that’s his house. Despite being drunk that night, I remembered it distinctively, especially its Victorian architecture, much different from white picket fence homes surrounding it, and I wondered if he was a writer. Guy like that, living in a house like that. It only made sense.
Now nothing makes sense.
Today’s tag is “Grace.”
Stay tuned for “H” on Monday!