Her foot dangled in the air above the empty pool. Faces gazed down at her, or up at the sky, realised in ancient marble so masterfully etched it looked soft as the skin it was emulating. Around her, the dead city was silent but for the breeze whistling through the empty buildings and the singing of birds who nested in overgrown windows.
There hasn't been water in the fountain for centuries. The coins tossed in were rusted to a dark smudge at the bottom. Wishes from a hundred thousand hands, wasted to nothing. But she could imagine the cool water on her skin, and the laughter of lovers throwing their coins in with their hopes.
Paddy Dobson
20th September 2022