Rooftop

(Microdosing — 100 words)

In the church across the road, up a hill too steep for cars when it snows, they gather. Always the same ones. They sit on worn pews, reciting worn prayers, asking for health, or pardon, or something unnamed.

At twilight, the lock turns — old oak sealing whatever passed between them. Then, beneath a rooftop of cold stars, they descend.

They cross the road. They pass my house.
No one speaks. No one looks.
But always, I nod from the window.

Because they’ve left something behind in there.
And whatever it is —
it’s never followed them home.

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Written for MicroDosing Fiction Rooftop 100µg