Paul Groves

The old man sat there in his study, the kind of cluttered room where the books leaned like drunks against the walls and the lamp threw a yellow circle that never quite reached the corners. His laptop screen glowed with that single line from Stephen King, and for just a second—God, just one sweet second—the weight that had been sitting on his chest since 2016 lifted. Trump stepping down. The words hung in the air like the last chord of a song you thought would never end. Outside, the Maine wind rattled the windows the way it always did in early April, cold and mean and full of promises it never kept. He almost smiled. Almost. Then the parenthesis hit: (April fool). And the shadows in the corners thickened again, slow and patient, the way they do when the joke’s on you. The wo/man closed the laptop with a soft click that sounded too much like a coffin lid. Somewhere down the road, a dog barked once and fell silent. Another long night is coming. Another long night. Nice one, Steve. You beautiful, evil bastard.