Little White Flowers

Through a rather unusual circumstance, Winslet became friends with George Malarkey, or as she would fondly refer to him today, Mr. George. Winslet came to know George Malarkey at first, through his belongings. And George knew her by her singing voice. Yet neither of them had the pleasure of meeting.

Of course, the young antique appraiser was not a thief or a trespasser. Instead, she was carefully and dutifully doing a job she was paid to do. And although at one time he delighted in the prospect of passing first and carrying on aggravating his late wife in the afterlife, Mr. Malarkey was, in fact, not a ghost. Still, though, he felt like one. Trapped in the void as his sacred place was disassembled, his precious items carried off to auctions. And although Winslet wasn't a thief, George wouldn't have given up his things so easily, but he still appreciated her singing.

According to George's two stepdaughters Bianca and Anna, Mr. Malarkey had passed peacefully in his sleep earlier this year. His former room was to remain locked and off-limits. Winslet respected the privacy of the family and abided by their wishes. That was until the odd appearance of a small notebook in front of Mr. Malarkey's bedroom door.

The morning of the discovery was a bright Sunday morning; the rays of light beamed through the windows hot and strong in the east turret. There was a writing desk here she had adopted as her workspace that also happened to be just to the left of Mr. Malarkey’s bedroom door. She almost didn't see it there on the ground; she balanced heavy boxes in front of her face back and forth all day. So, when she did notice, she couldn't help but wonder how long it might have been there. Curiously, she set her box down on the desk and returned attention to the notebook; turning to the first page, she read, If Lost, Please Return to George Malarkey, in gold italicized font. Flipping through it, she gathered that it was a journal of sorts. It sent a chill through her body, holding what she thought to be a dead man's personal journal. It must have fallen out of one of the boxes today; she tried to reason. Although it didn't seem likely. She always closed the boxes before transporting them throughout the house.

She set it off to the side of her workspace. She began to softly sing and work through the lifetime of documents, keepsakes, photographs, antiques, and this or that's Mr. Malarkey had accumulated over their entire lifetime. Forgetting about the notebook.

Looking back, Winslet often felt guilty for how long it took her to read it; just a day or two more might have been too long. Eventually, she did become curious enough to take a break from her work and pick it up again. The notebook was all black, the ends of the pages were gold, and a band around it kept it shut. It resembled an old bible; just without the "Holy Bible" embossed on the front.

Mr. Malarkey journaled about his days and wrote short stories and sometimes even poetry. He was absolutely in love with his wife, who had unfortunately passed from cancer a couple springs ago. Winslet found herself wrapped up in the words and world of George Malarkey; she could tell he took pride in crafting his writing. She was about in tears, both joyous and sorrowful tears, reading about his life. Winslet found herself wishing to have gotten the chance to meet him. This exact thought circulated around her head when she saw the last entry and dropped the book on the ground in surprise.

She sings so softly, so sweetly; she goes by my door every day. She is like the sunshine and leads me back every time I start to fade away. I hope to know her one day.

Winslet stared at the book that lay on the ground. As we have already gone over, Mr. Malarkey is not a ghost. And while reasoning with herself, Winslet also came to this conclusion. Before she could pick the book back up, she heard Bianca making her way up the stairs towards her calling out a long and breathy-

"Winnnnnnnsleeettt"

She only stopped her bellowing upon reaching the top when her eyes locked on the book. She flew quickly towards it, scooping it up like a kind of deranged weasel, explaining that it was hers, before scurrying off.

Now what a strange predicament, what was Winslet to do, what would you do? Calling the police might be drastic before knowing what was happening. So, she started first by trying to open Mr. Malarkeys' door; it was locked, as suspected. Her lock picking attempt came to no avail either. Determined to get to the bottom of what was happening, she began to stir up a plan to find the key. If he was really in there, they must go in there at night to keep him alive, or just the opposite, a chill went through Winslet's body.

So, she sat up that night and waited.

Just as she expected, Anna went into her stepfather's room that night, carrying a tea tray. Exiting only a few moments later without it. Winslet stayed on the bottom floor, able to see enough of the top floor with its open hallway. She waited, watching Anna place the key behind a book in the foyer bookcase. Waiting until she was sure the sisters were asleep for the night; she retrieved the key.

What she found in the room was ghastly. A paper-thin man laid out in a large bed; he looked as if he hadn’t been out of bed in quite a while. Hearing her enter the room, he weakly tried to lift his head.

He began to speak as she slowly approached the bed, but he was caught by a coughing fit. She helped him sit up and reached for the cup of tea by his bedside, until something stopped her.

A vase of little white flowers,

Hemlock.

"Are you the girl with the voice?" He asked her, barely able to push out the sounds from behind his lips'

She nodded

Footsteps began to draw near-

"Do not drink anymore of the tea." She whispered to him quickly. Winselt hurried downstairs to stash the key away again when her arm was caught mid key stashing, snapping her neck around Bianca held her wrist, and Anna was right behind her.

They marched her to the living room and forced her to sit.

Bianca took a book out and began to write; the room was silent, except for her pen scratching away on paper.

After what seemed to be an eternity, she ripped the paper out; leaning forward, ushered it into Winslet's hands.

She averted her eyes to the paper, a check written out in the amount of 20,000 dollars.

Winslet looked up at them, confused.

"Twenty thousand dollars to not say anything, to leave and not say anything." Anna said.

Now in the same exact spot, Winslet looked across the room at a healthy Mr. George, his glasses at the end of his nose, warmth in his face as he read one of his favorite novels. She would always remember the day she ripped up that check for 20,000 dollars, and her new friend Mr. George would never know.