James Hammond

Time Will Prove Everything

The palpable odour of elderly dissatisfaction spoiled what would have otherwise been the acceptable remnants of a living room. Nearly everything remained as he had last remembered; the sofas of cream and fuchsia cretonne sat abnormally unused, the dust burdened cushions longing for a familiar bottom to once again make itself at home; the shiraz-red bookcase nestled between each sofa, its depth of colour swallowing the gaze of whoever looked upon it, like a glassful of the antique wine it resembled. All the books were still in their place. All the books except one.