Stitching

It wasn’t pretty, stitching had never been his forte; the needle’s erratic pattern betrayed the mend.

Tiredly, he surveyed the boy, smoked his pipe, engraved: For my Love.

He listened, enraptured, as tales of incredible feats graced his old ears: vicious dragons slain, roiling rivers crossed, perilous mountains traversed. Ebullient actions accompanied them: a stick– no, sword– whizzing through air, gifting a crisp, ‘vrrrp’.

“Did you at least find treasure?”

“Yours, Grandpa!”

A familiar watch caked in mud. His heart gave a heavy lurch, aged fingers seeking– finding the matching inscription.

“I saw her drop it, when… when she fell.”