Flash Fiction by Shadow Summit
He stood still at the end of his concrete driveway with one hand raised as a last goodbye to his son and three grandchildren. He lent on his walking frame as his deep wrinkles returned to their resting position as the smile faded from his mouth. His suddenly tired eyes watched a wren drink from the birdbath and he let out a long sigh. It was incredibly peaceful yet his pale hand gripped the walking frame tightly. His journey to the porch of his brick house was short yet incredibly draining. For a week he had been accompanied by a chattering group of grandchildren, who told him of all their hobbies and adventures. Now, however, not even the birds wished to talk to him. The old, worn leather chair greeted him but he felt no warmth or comfort in sinking into the seat. He gazed across the empty porch and yard just listening to his own breathing.
“Some peace and quiet at last,” he mumbled.
Yet even as he said it, tears welled in his eyes dripping down his cheeks. But there was no-one to comfort him; no-one to wipe away his tears as he had done for his grandchildren several times on their visit. Instead he wiped them away with the back of his hand and lifted himself up slowly. As the sun lowered he went inside to light a fire in an attempt to rid his home of the cold, dark emptiness.