Our PROMPTuesday assignment is: make up a story inspired by the picture above.
When dawn came, they came down from the wild hills where they'd fled from the fighting. He had held his daughter's hand as they had awkwardly scaled the rocks in their haste to climb up, pursed in the darkness. Now, coming back down, he clasped it even though their footing was sure in the thin light.
It had been cold during the night. They'd slept together sheltered by a rocky outcropping and his cloak, and he'd curled his larger body round hers to keep her warm. Now he was chilled, and it was her hand that warmed him. Her warmth, the thrumming energy of childhood, seemed to defy even the horrors they'd seen, that had defeated and weakened him.
They passed a blasted tree, the turf sere and blistered beneath it. Did she notice it? He said nothing.
"There's the village," she said. "It looks all right. Maybe Mama's there."
The broken windows were hollow, and soot blackened the whitewashed stones of the church. "We'll see," he said. "Maybe someone's left."