The Devil in the Details

In a quiet corner of a forgotten nursing home in rural Texas, an elderly man by the name of Harold Davin sat in a worn armchair, his gaze drifting over the muted colors of the room. The soft shuffle of a CNA’s shoes broke the silence. She approached him, her voice gentle. “Mr. Davin, your grandson is here to visit.”

“I have a grandson?” the old man asked, unable to procure an image of anyone in his mind.

“Yes, you do,” the CNA responded sympathetically, “he comes to visit you every week. I’ll send him in.”

Moments later, the door swung open, revealing a striking figure. The grandson, tall and darkly handsome, strode in with an air of confidence. His smoldering eyes held an intensity that immediately drew Harold in and seemed to still the air in the room for a brief second.

“Hello, Grandpa,” he said, his voice smooth like aged whiskey. He held a well-worn book in one hand. “I’m here to read to you, as usual.”

Harold nodded, grateful for the connection, however fleeting. As his grandson began to read, the words flowed like a river, weaving tales of adventure and longing. Harold listened intently, feeling a familiar warmth rising within him. He found himself hanging onto every word, afraid to miss even a single detail.

Hours later, when the sunlight seeping through the window in the room was now a soft dark orange, the grandson closed the book. Harold sighed dreamily. “That was wonderful. Who wrote it?”

A slight smile flickered on his grandson’s lips. “You did, Grandpa. It’s your story. Let me help you remember.”

With a snap of his fingers, the room shimmered, and memories surged back, flooding Harold’s mind. He recalled the countless rejections, the years spent toiling over that manuscript sitting in the young man’s lap, being unable to pay his bills because his writing wasn’t bringing in any income. One memory stood out vividly, one from nearly forty years earlier: a young Harold leaving a publishing office, feeling defeated, when a striking young man with smoldering eyes had approached him.

“I can make you as famous as Shakespeare,” the young man had offered, his voice laced with an otherworldly charm, “but it will cost you.”

“I don’t have any money,” the young Harold had answered.

“It won’t cost you money, just something you already possess.”

“What do you mean?” Harold had asked, apprehension and temptation wrestling within him.

“Your gift,” the young man had replied silkily, his smile enigmatic. “It’s worth far more than you know.”

Suddenly, the vivid memory faded, and Harold found himself back in the nursing home, staring at the handsome figure before him; the same man from his memory, who hadn’t aged a single day since then.

“Do you remember my name?” the young man asked, leaning forward. His smoldering eyes now seemed to have a furnace blazing inside of them.

Harold’s heart raced as he whispered, “Lucifer.”

Lucifer smiled knowingly. “Surprise.”

Harold shrunk into his armchair, his pulse pounding in his ears. “What do you want from me?” he asked shakily. “Have you come to collect what I owe you?”

“Oh, of course not,” Lucifer responded. “I collected what was owed years ago. Writers always write from their own experiences, even if they embellish the details sometimes.” He stood up, towering over Harold and leaned forward to place the book in the old man’s lap. He then turned to leave, pausing at the door. “After all, what’s a writer without his memory?”

With another snap of his fingers, he vanished, leaving Harold alone again in the dim room.

Just then, the CNA returned, her expression concerned, seeing Harold cowering in his chair. “Did you enjoy your time with your grandson?”

Harold blinked, confusion settling in. “My grandson?” he echoed, the connection slipping away like sand through his fingers. He glanced at the book resting in his lap, the cover faded but familiar.

“Should I read it?” he asked, his voice still shaky.

“Absolutely,” the CNA encouraged. “It’s a great book. Some say it’s the best ever written.”

As Harold opened the cover, a handwritten note caught his eye:

From L, to Grandpa. To remind you of who you once were.

“It’s from my grandson,” Harold told her. “But I still can’t remember having one.”

“It’s okay,” the CNA said, gently touching Harold’s frail hand, “he’ll be back next week to remind you. You’re blessed, you know. To have someone who won’t let you forget.”

“Yes…” Harold acquiesced staring at the book in his hands. He was unsure why, but he had a strange feeling that not being allowed to forget was more of a curse, than a blessing.

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