The run-up to Christmas is always a time
of reflection for me.
How the year has gone, what I’ve got to
look forward to over the coming month, but also fondly remembering those we
used to celebrate with. The long dark nights, log fires, and a steaming cup of
tea often inspire me to write ghost stories about the return of the ones we
love.
I hope this short story gets you in the spirit.
The Christmas Habitué
It was Christmas Eve and
Florence heard a gentle click of the front door and then the stamp of snowy
boots.
‘Derek,
that you?’ she said.
‘Hello
Ma!’ he said, picture framed by the doorway in his army uniform which had been
pressed to an inch of his life, ‘could murder a cuppa!’
As he
rubbed his ashen hands above the red coals of the fire, she shuffled to the
kitchen in a pair of oversized green woollen socks. Returning with a teapot for
two, he was gone; just like every Christmas.
She smiled and then cried, just like she always did.
(This story was first published by Friday Flash Fiction in December 2020)
(Photo by Nathan Dumlao on Unsplash)
oooh sad...
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