There is a street that cannot be found on any map, wandering and slithering like a serpent through the undergrowth. Old brick and peeling plaster slink from one corner of the city to the other. Even in midsummer, there is a heavy grey fog, thick as soup, and even in midday, the crescent moon hangs in the sky.
And at the top of flickering lampposts, stars twinkle, bound in glass and iron. Long ago, an old woman reached into night and plucked them down like flowers from a meadow.
Now they light her street, long after she is gone.
Word Count: 99
This is for Friday Fictioneers. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for running the challenge and Sandra Cook for providing the prompt photo!