Hope, they call it, the fortress city behind the wall. Impenetrable unless they let you through the checkpoint. Lines of cars have been sitting there for as long as I can remember, but they haven’t moved in months. Occasionally, the guards still let a few people in, but not as often as before. I was one of the few to make it through the gates shortly after the Scourge. Once I learned what they do with outsiders, I hid. I’ve been trying to find a way back out ever since. Hope is the last thing they should call this place.
The grass is always greener on the other side. And then you make the mistake of going to the other side.
Written for Friday Fictioneers.
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