Beatrice moved the papers on the writing desk so that she could dust inside the pigeon-holed rack. With practised ease, she swiped the cloth over the knobs, so that they shone like silver. The heavy, leather-backed chair was difficult to budge, so she cleaned around it.
A tiny twinge of emotion tugged at her heart as she picked up the photograph on the desk. Shaking herself, she put it back. But, the golden quill in the inkpot was the last straw.
Lachrymose, she recalled the loving way he used to hold it, while pouring his soul on to the manuscript.
Word count: 100
Written for the Friday Fictioneers- Click here to read the prompt and here to read the other entries in the link-up.
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Today is Day 15