Unfinished

I am very aware of the desire, from some quarters, to finish the tale started on Friday. I'm actually loath to do this, as I don't think that a) I can do it justice, and b) everything can be wrapped up neatly. But I will endeavour to do so, for the sake of the reminder that... well, have a read.

--

He was bent double, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. He stared into the black.

It was taking a long time to adjust.

Footsteps approached, and showed no indication of slowing. John turned his head in time to see the swarthy frame of Peter approaching, at speed. John stepped backwards, and Peter, as ever, rushed straight in.

"Where is he?!"

"I don't know, do I?"

John followed. There was a distinct smell of death in the air of the tomb.

"Didn't he say...?"

Peter was cut off with a look. John had felt this before. The hope stirring. The light returning. The opportunities endless...

But that had died. That had been nailed to a cross, stabbed with a spear, and buried in a tomb. A tomb, that if one closed their eyes, reeked of decay and hopelessness. But when the eyes were open, folded grave clothes and a distinct lack of Him could only mean one thing.

Hope.

John fought it. Every logical possibility ran through his mind. The Romans took him. The Jews took him. The disciples took him. Someone must have taken him. He can't be... alive.

John slowly turned, and watched, as the first light of day filtered into that dark space. He stepped outside, and the Spring air filled his lungs. Perhaps the hope could stir. Perhaps the light could return. Perhaps the opportunies were...

Perhaps it isn't finished, after all.