Her aunt gave them to her, wrapped in one of his ugly cardigans and with the pages of his unfinished story. Setting the box on his desk, she had stood there, looking lost, until Helena had asked if she was okay. Turning with a little gasp, she murmured a tight "Fine", then rushed out of his study and down the stairs.
Helena opened the box, and carefully unrolled his soft, worn sweater. Her uncle's glasses, black-rimmed and still dirty, felt heavy in her hand. He had only worn them when he wrote. All other times, even when he'd read his stories to her, they had been perched, forgotten, on the top of his head. She couldn't count the number of times he'd wander around his study, swearing while he searched for his glasses. She'd laugh from her nook by the window and he'd scowl and ask her what was so damn funny.
Helena breathed onto the lenses and rubbed them clean with her shirt. On a whim, she put them on, changing her clear view of the comforting study to one of blurry, unknown smears. Everything looked so wrong through his glasses! Scowling, she moved them to the top of her head. She took his final story over to the window and sat, using his sweater as her blanket.
She stared at the first page. Did she want to read it? It would never be finished. She'd never be able to see his face light up when she'd gasp at the monsters in the hallways. Never hear his laugh when she'd make gagging noises over the kissy parts. Never be able to have him on the edge of his seat saying, "Well? What do you think?"
The thought of all of those nevers made her tired. Helena set his story down and put her uncle's glasses on top. Shifting to get comfortable under his sweater, she drifted off, wishing that he had been able to complete his tale.
While she slept, the pages under his glasses fluttered softly.
Sorry, this one went over the 5 minutes. I'll stop when the timer goes off next time. Probably.
Other Stories
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