Time for a Story of Returning

Felicia’s sleep, generally speaking, is as peaceful as her lolling smile while awake. But on that night, a night softly hushed by a smattering of rain, she awoke quite suddenly. I only knew this because she stirred, a frail hand gripping the sheet.

“Eric,” she whispered reverently. Slowly, methodically with the practiced movements of a woman long slowed by time’s cruel hand, Felicia sat up in bed. Her pale, emaciated legs swung over the side towards me. Her eyes fixed on me, gently with no malice nor malevolence.

“Felicia,” I said softly, in my best nurse’s voice, “Why are you up, dear? Lay back down. Sleep. Here, let me…”

“Tsk, tsk,” she cut me off sweetly, “Eric will not abide a lazy welcome. He comes. He comes tonight.”

“Eric?” I asked, starting to fumble with the sheets, “Is he one of your sons who visit?”

She smiled, apparently amused by my question, “Deary, let me tell you a story. On a night much like this, seventy years ago I met a man, an extraordinary man. Tonight he returns.”

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