His gait was unsteady. He'd be okay for a while, walk well and upright for a short distance, but then he'd falter and he'd have to find something to keep him up - a wall, a fencepost, a tree.
He was drunk. Again. So many times he had promised to stop. So many times he had told her he wouldn't drink anymore. But each and every time, he would falter, he would break his promise, he would lose his stride toward sobriety.
He weaved his way up the walk. The house was silent and dark.
He knew that she was gone.
p.s. Because I plan two days of Sarah for the weekend, I am going to reprint last Halloween's Ghost Story tomorrow. It may not be word for word - it may be an update, edit for polish version of the story. We'll see.