The Last Red
She carries another box up the stairs. Beginning the task of settling her father's estate, alone. The cellar hasn't been touched in years. It is filled with her fathers tools. Odd metal tools from his time in the military fixing planes, seldom-used gardening implements, tubes and carboys for making a few bottles of wine each year. It's the bottles of wine she's moving now, not sure what to do with them but reluctant to let them go to waste. She returns to the cool air, the buzz of the old incandescent bulb that barely casts more than a candles worth of light. In the dark, her foot knocks a bottle onto its side, but the seal holds strong and the bottle doesn't break. It chatters across the concrete, rolling under the narrow wooden shelf that holds its relatives, stopping short against something in the shadow. A small black notebook.
