Flashtober, 2026

Scarf

The girl in the red scarf walks by my window every morning. Oblivious. Consumed in thought.

Warming her hands around a paper cup or a pottery mug. Always something hot and steaming.

Where does she go? What does she think? Who waits for her on the other side of that cup of coffee, after my window, just past her red wool scarf.

Who knows her furrowed brow, and her tangled hair, and her puff of breath so well?

Whose heart flutters at a cardinal, a tomato, a rose?

She has a different coat today.

But still the same red scarf.