Written by Saxony Hunn age 13 (A later Final Friday Fiction)

A young friend undertook the 'story for the photo challenge' as an exercise in creative writing, sent this to F with an apology that pressing school commitments had intervened... If you like her story leave a comment below - Saxony will be looking out for them

(Linking to Final Friday Fiction with Wild Yam)

 The Shirt In The Window.                                                          17/01/20                                                     

One uncomfortably hot summer’s day, in the middle of August, a little boy walked down a street. The dust clung to his bare feet and clawed at his throat. He made no sound as he walked. He counted the large stones he saw and looked at all the windows, wondering about whom lived inside. He always made sure not to step on any cracks in the road or spend too long on one flagstone, which his mother had told him was bad luck. He was often out all day, searching for strangely shaped rocks and pebbles. This particular day however, he decided to stop in the shade under a wizened olive tree. Across the street from him was a tarnished blue gate. The iron twisted in spiral-like patterns and little elephants adorned the top. The little boy was intrigued; he moistened his dry lips, looked hurriedly up and down the street and then darted across. Tentatively, he reached out and grasped the gate. It was cool to the touch and when he let go, little flakes of blue paint fell to the floor. He stared at it a little while longer and then retreated back to the safety of the tree. When he looked up, he noticed a face in the window above the gate. Watery blue eyes were sunken into a grooved and weathered face. The old man smiled when he saw the boy looking. The smile revealed only three teeth in the man’s mouth. The boy’s eyes grew wide with alarm and he ran off. An old man, who he did not know, had interrupted his private daydreams. It was an understandable thing to do.

Curiosity gradually got the better of the little boy and in less than a week he had stationed himself back under the tree. Armed with no less than one of his favourite rocks, he cautiously tiptoed towards the gate. With one arm clutching his rock, he gently pushed it open. Once more, little blue flakes fell to the ground and settled in the dust. He then sat down under the windowsill and felt immensely proud of his accomplishment. He was a very brave little boy. The old man had been observing him for sometime, but did not want to startle him again. All of a sudden, the boy looked up at the window and saw two crinkled eyes smiling down at him. Slowly, he got up so that his eyes were level with the rim of the window.

“Hello.” the little boy said.

“Hello there.” replied the man.

Timidly, the little boy reached out and placed his rock on the ledge.

“You can borrow it if you like.”

“Thank you,” the old man said, “I shall take good care of it.”                                                            

His visits soon became regular and each time, he would bring little treasures for the old man - bird’s feathers and pebbles, animal bones and sea glass. The man treasured each one and stored them in a little wooden box. In return, he would share enthralling stories from his youth; tales from a long-forgotten war, training elephants in circuses and riding camels in the East. Sometimes, he would stop talking and stare into space, conjuring images he could not explain. Other times, his eyes would well with tears and the little boy would reach out and hold his leathery hand. One day the little boy took the man to a field full of wild flowers. A sea of blues and purples and reds swayed in the breeze as they walked hand in hand through them. The boy stopped and looked up at the man.

“What happens when you die?”

The man didn’t reply for some time and when he did, his voice was heavy and thick with emotion.

“I would like to think that we all go to a heaven of some kind… Where there is only love and peace…my son, he is up there, somewhere…I shall see him again one-day.”

The little boy nodded his head in solemn agreement and smiled.

“Yes.” He said. “I think so too.”

One autumn day, the little boy visited the house in which the old man lived. However, it was dark and empty; no sound penetrated through the thick brick walls. He called out for the old man, but only his echo answered him. The old man had gone to somewhere he could not follow. Cautiously the boy wandered through the house, peering into disused rooms where a thin layer of dust had settled. He arrived at a room situated at the end of the corridor. Inside was a single desk where a bundle of letters sat. Each one was addressed to a Master Thomas Beechwood. It was the old man’s dead son. Each year, on the anniversary of his death, he had written to him. The most recent one was lying flat on the desk and unfinished. It read, ‘…thank you Thomas for sending me such a dear child when I was the most lonely and afraid…he is like a son to me and I pray every night for his protection. I know I have not long left and rejoice in the thought of finally holding you in my arms. I shall hang a shirt in the window where you once sat and read novels, to prepare you for my arrival. Much love to you my dear boy, you’re...’

However, the little boy could not read, instead he traced the letters with his finger, unable to infer their meaning. As he walked back down the hallway, he passed the window facing the courtyard, the one in which he had seen the old man’s face looking down at him for the first time. The light was partially blocked by a faded, blue shirt, which was hung from the window. The little boy touched the worn fabric that smelt of tobacco and wood smoke. He suddenly felt reluctant to leave, as though if he left now, he could never return. He tore a section of the cloth and buried it deep in his pocket. Then, without a word, he left the house, shut the gate firmly and for the last time, walked down the nameless street.

Many years later, the little boy, who wasn’t so little anymore, found the scrap of blue fabric again; the smell of tobacco and faint smoke still lingered. He smiled, remembering the fond memories that the cloth had bought back. He visited the old house again on a summer day in August. The olive tree was smaller then he remembered and some of the elephants had broken off. He gently opened the gate and stood in front of the window. The shirt had remained there after all these years. He held out the piece of shirt to the wind. Up it fluttered, spiralling through the air and out of sight. The young man cast one look at the shirt and then turned away. He heard the wind muttering in the trees as he left.

‘Thank you.’ Whispered the old man.

FFF Rulz