Tiffany knew her father had secrets. He never spoke of them and she never asked, but they were always there, shadows under the surface, threatening to break free.
There was a cellar under the windmill, hidden under dirt and straw. Sometimes he vanished down there, when he thought she wasn’t watching.
One night, when all was dark and every little noise seemed to carry forever, she went down there. All she found was a sword, old and chipped, with a lion-headed hilt.
She left everything as it was and never spoke of what she’d seen.
Once riders had come to the windmill, tall men on black horses. They had spoken with him in whispers and she had strained to hear. At last, they rode off, heads held low.
“Why were they here?” she asked.
“They were looking for someone,” he replied. “But he’s not here anymore.”
Word Count: 146
This is for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers. Thanks to Priceless Joy for running the challenge and Fandango for providing the prompt photo!