Deviation

He had a recurring dream. He saw himself wandering through a forest on a path. Every few yards, he came across a fork in the path. He always took the left fork. Always. And he always ended up right back where he started. He became familiar with all of the little things that he saw along the path that he always took. The same squirrels ran around in the same places, the same leaves fell from the same trees.

It was Sunday again, and time for his daily jog. Everything seemed normal as he began, but he quickly felt that something was wrong. He stopped next to the vacant lot, having gone only a few yards. He looked towards the old Barnaby house. He felt oddly drawn to it. Climbing over the fence of the lot, he began to make his way toward the house. He walked across the cracked pavement, wondering what he was doing. This wasn't his routine; why was he doing this?

The front of the mansion loomed closer. Its wooden siding splintered all over the outside. Various balls lay all over the ground, some so dirty that they blended with the brown grass. A sound caused him to look up. There was an old man standing in the front doorway on the porch. Their eyes met. The old man had a harsh look, but there was a certain warmth, a longing in the depths of his eyes. The old man returned to his house without a word.

That night, at the weekly game, he had trouble concentrating on his cards.