{Originally published on Truth Is Freedom.}

A daily ritual for 40 years, the door swinging open on creaking hinges. At first that noise had bothered him, but now it was a comfort. Something familiar. Step, shuffle, 12 steps with the right leg and 11 shuffles with the left foot. The distance hadn’t changed, but the numbers had slowly increased through the years. The door closed behind him, a creak followed by a thump and then the snick of the oiled latch springing home.

The rows of faded post boxes covered the rear wall of the foyer; many were empty now, holding only memories. The labels spoke eloquently of times when hope and promises filled the room, but that had changed as the world forgot the sacrifices they all had made. The key ring dangled from his right hand as he reached his destination, and with gentle chimes his gnarled shaking fingers slid the worn brass key into the lock. A turn, the door opened, and the letter was revealed.

He tilted his head to one side and caught his breath. Was this finally the one? He reached in and withdrew the envelope addressed to Occupant. A clink and the post box closed, and he dropped the keys back into his pocket. He turned, step, shuffle, six steps with the right leg and five shuffles with the left foot as he made his way to the table bolted to the west wall. There was a clunk as he hung his cane on the edge, 8.5 inches from the right end; the silver eagle’s head was worn, but the engraving, 41st Regimental Engineers, could still be seen on the band.

He set the letter down, three inches from the front edge and directly in front of him. He fumbled for his reading glasses and hooked them over his ears, left side first, then the right. With his left hand, he withdrew a penknife from the inner pocket of his overcoat and turned the letter over until it rested perpendicular to his waist. He flicked open the blade, the shimmering cover said congratulations on your retirement; the sharp steel made a soft hissing noise as he slit open the cream colored paper from bottom to top.

A gentle puff of air, and he shook out the contents onto the scuffed surface of the table. He unfolded the letter, once, twice and then laid it flat pressing down the corners and rubbing the creases. This is what it said.

Dear Occupant,

It has come to our attention that you are recently deceased. Please return the last pension payment at your earliest convenience. If this creates a hardship, then contact our office during normal business hours.

Sincerely,

Jane Carruthers

Pensions and Benefits

There was only a ghostly silence in the foyer as the letter fluttered to the floor to be found later by the janitor who saw the silver headed oak cane still swinging in and out on the edge of the table, a perfect counterpoint to the Earth rotating in its timeless orbit.

Editor’s pick by Heather Goodman at L’Chaim. This story haunts me–immortality and timelessness. I like the details in it, the number of steps the man takes as he goes to the door and to the table. I also like the poetic pattern of his writing. Brian Fowler publishes flash fiction and poetry on his blog, Truth Is Freedom. One of my favorite poems of his can be found here. I like the rhythm and sway of it. He also shares his photography on his blog (like these). You can subscribe to his blog here.