Web
Grandpa said I wouldn't be the same when I next stepped on that driveway.
Everyone I cared about then was dead or in that house. I stooped down and ran my finger along the grooves of the concrete. Twilight beckoned me to shelter, but my eyes stayed on the cracks. While I was away they had grown into a web. The dim light made the fissures black against the orange of sunset on the concrete. I stood and turned back to the road.
Grandpa was right.
I would never be back.