Mr. Oldman opened the box. Empty.
He turned it upside down on the table. Empty.
"Hope," Mr. Oldman cried, "the box is empty. How can the box be empty?"
There was no answer.
"Hope," he pleaded, holding the box up as proof of his grievance, "why is the box empty?"
His words received nothing but a silent, imaginary rebuke.
The eerie stillness of the house made him quiver as his brain suddenly remembered Hope was no longer there.
He put down the empty cereal box and moved closer to the kitchen window.
It had been snowing again that morning.
Hope loved the snow.
Mr. Oldman felt cold.
Emptier than usual.
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Memento mori: A Collection of Very Short Stories and Prose Poems
General FictionAlways be a poet, even in prose. ― Charles Baudelaire
