A story in 100 words for Friday Fictioneers
He sat cross legged on a tree stump, in one hand a piece of willow and the other a shiny pocket knife.
One day she dropped it as she as she bid him farewell.
She saw neither her whistle nor him again
Each day she walks among the trees seeking the stump near which one passionate summer’s day she lost her little wooden whistle.
Picture:Frost on a stump.Sandra Crook.