PHOTO PROMPT © Marie Gail Stratford
He’d come to the city to find himself, but lost himself instead. There was no freedom in cold steel and asphalt. He stood atop the Marriott, looking down at the city imprisoning him. What he was doing here?
“Freedom,” Jeff offered, “is a word that lives inside you.”
He glanced back. “What does that mean?”
“Whatever you want.”
Was freedom flying until he hit ground? But which moment, freedom?
“Go home,” Jeff urged.
“I don’t have a home.”
“Home’s inside you, too.”
Jeff was right. Home was inside, just like freedom.
“Waffles and jam?”
He smiled. “On me.”