An icy draft slipped through the single window, stirring a threadbare curtain in the small bed-sitting room. Arthur shuffled to his armchair, its stuffing long thinned. A chipped mug of tea steamed on the side table.
Arthur had lived there alone for twenty winters, eking out his pension. It was Christmas morning but no tinsel dangled from a tree.
A sudden glow filled the corner. A young man stood dressed in a threadbare overcoat and a knitted scarf, his pale face lit by an unseen lantern. He looked about twenty, cheeks hollowed by hunger and eyes rimmed with quiet sadness.
Arthur’s breath caught. ‘Who are you?’
‘I lived here sixty Christmases ago,’ the youth replied, voice soft as falling snow.
The ghost recounted fragments of that long-past holiday: sharing a slice of bread with a neighbour, remembering brighter yesterdays, humming a carol. Arthur listened, tears at the corners of his eyes.
When the youth finished, he lifted a trembling hand. ‘I took my life that night. I’ve wandered since, bound to this room by sorrow.’
Arthur placed a gentle hand on the youth’s shoulder. ‘You’re not alone now.’ He fetched the chipped mug of tea. The lantern-light faded, replaced by the glow of a single candle on Arthur’s table. The young man smiled, before dissolving into the quiet hush.
Alone again, Arthur tucked the candle close. Outside, rain eased into a gentle mist, and for the first time in years, he felt the warmth of company fill his little room.
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 