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Weekly Contest #120
Three days days after he had buried her, he sat there now on the bedroom floor, shirtless and gasping for air. It was a cold night, and the wooden doors of the armoire in front of him swung gently to the breeze that crept in through the open window. His barely blinking eyes were wide open and the bottle of cheap whiskey next to him was all but empty. The old man ruffled his ever-thinning hair and scratched his sparse shadow of a beard. He gazed, like he had a hundred times over the past hour, at the unruly stacks of books, papers and ma...
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