I searched the word “prince” but found this photo next to a photo of a Prince Albert pub sign; I decided it would be my inspiration today. Following up on my last Flash Fiction Friday, I have tried not naming the protagonist which was surprisingly challenging for me.
Walking the six blocks from the train station, the woman did not know what to expect. How many times had her father told her, “you can never go home again,” while her eyes had glazed over, reminiscing. Her friends, too, had long ago grown tired of listening to tales of her glory years, living above a pub, getting to know the locals, drinking herself into a stupor. But she was sober now, six years, and finally ready to face the building that held the ghosts of her lost years.
As she rounded the corner, the woman’s heart sank. She had wanted touch it, to make sure the worn bricks and heavy wood door no longer held any power, but the structure was in decay and fenced off. One could no longer see inside, its heavy stained glass windows now boarded up. The Golden Lion had been condemned, itself now a ghost.
Her eyes rested on the sign that proclaimed the site for sale; even that was weathered, suggesting that everyone had turned their back on the once vibrant watering hole. She raised her coffee cup to offer a toast but the paper cup felt heavy in her hand. She closed her eyes, letting the echoes of rowdy evenings swell until, facing the building one last time, she offered the Golden Lion a simple curtsy and turned back toward the present and the future.