He sits in the majestic chair behind his desk in the library. A candle is lit although there is a light on. He says it reminds him of her. She used to smell like green apples.
The memory brings forth a gentle smile, barely visible. He sits here every day, he's been doing so for years. Some things change of course. These days his hands tremble a lot more then they used to. Simply holding a pen in hand starts to hurt after a while. Worse even is that it takes a lot longer to write anything down. His memory is failing him, his body is failing him.
He started coughing up blood.
In his head he is sixty years younger and dancing with the love of his life.
In life he is an eighty year old man sitting in a big chair behind a big desk, looking like a bag of bones.
He sits there, trying not to move, so no one notices the trembling. Just staring at the blank pages, not even trying to write, because he can't really remember. He sits there quietly pretending there is no blood in his handkerchief.
But a trained eye might see something special.
Every now an then he smiles.
Every now and then he remembers something beautiful.
Every now and then he remembers something worth writing down.
