Arthur settled into his faded armchair as the clock chimed nine. Outside, robins darted through early frost, but inside the room lay stillness, punctuated only by the slow drip of an old radiator. The door creaked open and in stepped Mrs. Patel, her clipboard poised like a stern schoolmistress.
Arthur sighed, the care home had sent a lady.
‘You really ought to write your will, Mr. Pritchard,’ she began, voice gentle but insistent.
Arthur didn’t have anything to leave. A life-time of poorly-paid work and nothing to show for it. He didn’t want to write a will but the home insisted all ‘residents’ did so. It made things easier after they died.
‘Ain’t got nothing to leave,’ Arthur grumbled.
Mrs. Patel clicked her pen. ‘Even small things matter. Your savings, that silver locket—’
Arthur’s jaw tightened. The locket, a tarnished oval containing his late wife’s faded photograph, he guarded fiercely in his waistcoat pocket. But beyond that? What purpose did a will serve if no fortune remained?
She paused, examining him with earnest eyes. ‘It’s about peace of mind – for you and those you care about.’
He remembered his grandson’s shy grin, the way the boy traced his finger along that locket’s edge. Was peace of mind enough inheritance?
In the hush that followed, Arthur reached into his coat and produced a battered notebook. ‘I can leave my stories,’ he whispered. Mrs. Patel’s stern posture softened into a hopeful smile.
He picked up her pen. Outside, the frost melted.
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Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 