His fingers caressed the Sax with fondness.

Tears pricked his eyes as he remembered.

The faint sounds of ghostly play echoed in his head and in the house.

Everything was now covered in a film of dust.

Touching his dad’s Sax once more, he packed it back in it’s old box and walked out of the house for the last time, into the bright afternoon Sun.

© Jacqueline Oby-Ikocha