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Copyright Ben Westerham 2018. All rights reserved.
The squat glass jar with the sealed lid contained a heart. No, not mine, you silly thing. Though whose it was, I’ve no idea. The man in the shop where I bought it several months ago claimed it was at least a hundred years old and almost certainly considerably more ancient. This was something on which he was very insistent, despite my initial scepticism. A genuine antique, he added, rather gravely.
Once I had carried it safely home, I placed it in prime position on a shelf of my widest and strongest bookcase in my study, so that I might admire this elderly and curious relic from the swivel-seat at my desk.
I went to take a peek this morning, before tucking into my breakfast of marmalade toast and coffee, but found it was gone. Odd enough on its own, if truth be told, but what’s more, it had been replaced with a note on a torn scrap of paper. I was thanked for taking good care of the heart, but now its owner had come to re-claim and re-use it.
It left me feeling rather sad, since I had grown attached to this curious ornament. It also left me rather miffed, after all, how heartless could someone be to do such a thing?
** End **
Shorts in the Dark
Every month you will find a new short story here, always with a darker criminal theme. Below is September's story. Enjoy!