Stitching
It wasn’t pretty, stitching had never been his forte; the needle’s erratic pattern betrayed the mend.
Tiredly, he surveyed the boy, smoked his pipe, engraved: For my Love.
He listened, enraptured, as tales of incredible feats graced his old ears: vicious dragons slain, roiling rivers crossed, perilous mountains traversed. Ebullient actions accompanied them: a stick– no, sword– whizzing through air, gifting a crisp, ‘vrrrp’.
“Did you at least find treasure?”
“Yours, Grandpa!”
A familiar watch caked in mud. His heart gave a heavy lurch, aged fingers seeking– finding the matching inscription.
“I saw her drop it, when… when she fell.”
About the Creator
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