In the city’s sleepless heart, guilt doesn’t fade — it lingers like smoke, curling around the truth she tried to bury.
Prompt
The city burned slow, like a cigarette left too long between guilty fingers.
A week after she pulled the trigger, the city still smelled like rain and regret. The news called it an accident. The cops called it unsolved. She called it justice. But guilt was a harder case to close.
Each night, she replayed the scene: his hand on the girl’s shoulder, the look in his eyes, the sound the bullet made against the silence. Some ghosts fade with whiskey — others pour a second glass and stay.
Then came the photo. Slid under her door like a threat or a confession — a picture of her at the scene. Someone had been watching. Someone who knew.
She lit a cigarette, exhaled slowly, and whispered to the shadows, “If you’re coming for me… bring evidence.”
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💬 Question for Readers:
Would you face your guilt head-on, or bury it deep and let the city forget your name?