The White Horse was a pub like any other, full of good ale, better people, and the roar of laughter. The fire in the hearth burnt like a sunset behind mountains of black charcoal and the dartboard was peppered with the stab marks of near-perfect games. Old friends talked long into the hours of the night, unwilling to leave.
Once you left The White Horse, you never came back.
The White Horse sat at the world’s end, beyond the horizon, perched above an expanse of twilight and mist, where echoes of distant songs carried from unseen valleys. It was where heroes came when their stories were done, a place to rest, to laugh, to tell their stories, before the time came to move on.
Some of them stayed an hour. Some stayed for decades, greeting future generations as they walked through the door to tell of their changed world.
All moved on in the end. Their hunger sated, their hearts rested, they set out along the last road and walked into the swirling curtain.
All save one.
An old man sat behind the bar, pouring drinks and hearing stories.
He remembered them all.
Word Count: 193
This is for Sunday Photo Fiction. Thanks to A Mixed Bag for the photo prompt!