The formula of Rose

A teacup sits upon a table, a layer of dust gathered on the top. Scattered books and papers. A crumpled tissue with messy writing lays abandoned on the ground. A frozen moment in the apartment with the locked door. It's been three years since it's been opened, since the tenant left his home. His name was Charles Clinton and three years ago his life was changed.

It was an average Sunday evening as he sat behind the wooden table in the corner of his kitchen. The lights have long gone out outside the window, the only sound within the small apartment was the quiet pitter-patter of the rain hitting the window. His shaking hands held a small teacup, steaming hot with lavender and mint. As he thoughtfully looked out the window thinking about his latest work. His brows were furrowed as he stared at the cars making their way through the dark and gloomy weather. His eyes were open but he saw numbers, algorithms, and formulas sifting through them in his mind. He put the teacup on the table, and with his pen, he started writing within the little black book. After a moment of deliberation, he tore out the paper and threw it to the side. His head shaking, he pushed his chair back to walk around. He's been working on this project for some time, he spent the last few days working on the formula. Years of work, months of preparation just when he thought he had it, it slipped away. He drags his hands through his thin and graying hair frustration boiling within him. “If only Rose was here” he gently whispered. He looked at the fireplace in the corner, a rocking chair, on which lay a folden crochet blanket. His eyes drawn to the mantle, he finds the fading picture in a frame. As he draws closer his eyes sparkle, a gentle smile falls upon his lips. Picking up the photo he looks upon the faces of the couple, in their 60’s caught in a moment as they were dancing by the sea.

5 years ago, it seems like it's been far longer. He smiles as he sets the frame back to its place, but then it slips and falls out of his hand. He gasps, but it is far too late, it shatters as it falls face down upon the hardwood floor. He runs to the kitchen for a broom and a dustpan. Grabbing a towel on his way back. He takes it to protect his hand and carefully picks up the picture frame. As he does, he notices a piece of paper peeking out behind the photo's edge. Curiously, holding just the photo he slides it out from behind the frame. The aged paper, wrinkled under his soft creased hands. With shaking hands, he drags the corners closer. His face is pale, eyes wide, mouth gapes open. His eyes move across the lines that start with “Charles, if you're reading this then I am gone…”

His eyes frantically read through the letter “second will, 20,000 dollars an inheritance and the lost child..”

He grasps the letter tightly in his shaking hands. It takes him but a moment before he runs to his room, opening up the closet. He drags out his worn- down leather suitcase. Heaving it upon his bed. Frantically, he grabs a few essentials the first few items that he sees. Like a tornado his drawers are opened, the closet doors flung wide with clothing laying everywhere upon the ground. A shirt, some socks, a tie and jeans. Some scattered, some flung into the bag.

He runs, from room to room. Grabbing everything he thinks he needs. Anticipation hangs heavy in the air. His feet thud against the wooden floor, the rustling heard in every room he goes.

Finally, he finished packing, dragging his suitcase to the front door. He takes one last look into the hallway mirror at his disheveled clothes and messy hair. The sadness, shock, and the excitement all shining through his eyes. He slides his shoes on, grabs his top hat, his jacket, and one last time he locks the door.

It's been three years, the house is quiet. It stood in silence untouched by the outside world. The dust had gathered, cobwebs settled. At night it even groaned. The wooden floors creaked in places that once were walked on. The bills were paid, some knocks were heard. The life outside the locked apartment continued to go on. Then there is a quiet jingle far in the distance beyond the door. The house breathed in, waiting. It heard the lock slowly turn. The stiff door opens. In walks a man, his eyes assessing. taking in the teacup sitting on the table, in the corner of the kitchen, illuminated by the sunshine through the window. Papers, pens, and pencils scattered across in no particular manner. He walks through the hallway, hearing the familiar creak of the wooden floor beneath him. His eyes trace the disheveled room he left 3 years ago.

Behind him, tentatively enters a child. Eyes open wide in wonder at the little home. He walks to the rocking chair, his fingers slowly tracing the familiar pattern on the blanket. His brown eyes glistening with tears. The old man watches him with love, smiling in adoration. He watches as the boy points to the little black notebook, into it was carved a rose. As he opens up the book his face lights up at what he finds within it. Tenderly he flips each page. Admiring the drawn-out details of the writing. The boy looks curiously at the man still standing in the corner near the table and watches as he starts to put his things away. “What is this?” his soft voice carries. The man turns back looking at the little black book the child holds and says, “ A formula of Rose” as he closes his books and throws away the papers, dust floats up into the air. “I thought that I could solve it…” He looks at the boy holding tightly to his chest, confusion lines his face. The old man smiles and continues, “I found that there are things worth far more than formulas and money.” He points to the book and says, “The answers love, and for it I would do it all again as without it we are nothing.”