Freya

Freya held Malcolm’s eyes tight. They squished slightly against her fingers as she walked, fist bump, bump, bumping on her knee. She hadn’t seen Malcolm in three years, and he hadn’t seen her for even longer, so she kept a firm hold of his eyes as searched for him.

She had been looking for Malcolm all that time, wandering along these cracked pavements that arranged themselves at angles dizzying to Freya: lost tablets from another age. But she felt the need, the urge, to follow those stories to the end and hope against everything that she’d find an eyeless soul staring back at her from their end.