The Keeper of Lost Things

by Ruth Hogan

She had been dead for forty years, but she was still his life, and her death had given him his purpose. It had made Anthony Peardew the Keeper of Lost Things.

Her grandmother had once told her that one could blame ugliness on one’s genes and ignorance on one’s education, but there was absolutely no excuse whatsoever for being dull.

The dream was always the same. Endlessly searching and never finding the one thing that would finally bring him peace.

She let him make a life without her. The trace that lingered, and still remained to this day, was the scent of roses in places where it could not be.

Her capacity to care was instinctive. It was her greatest asset and her greatest vulnerability; she had been burned and he knew it had left a mark.

“In this world, Daisy, we are tiny. We can’t always win and we can’t always be happy. But the one thing that we can always do is try.

He was her North, her South, her East, her West, Her working week and Sunday vest, She was his moon and stars and favorite song, They thought that love would last forever: they weren’t wrong.

Marvin liked to keep busy. It stopped the bad thoughts creeping into his head, like black ants seething over the body of a dead songbird.