Evening falls // Prose for nexus_crossings

It’s dusk; damp, cool, blue spring twilight, and the crickets and frogs are making noise in the undergrowth at the back of the clubhouse. Steve is making a last trip around the periphery, checking the locks on the windows, checking the newly-repaired roof for leaks, checking, looking, listening for things that aren’t there and never will be again.

( cut for length )