He, our Good Samaritan, had forty eight hours left to live. Therapy reduced him to a mere skeleton. Out of hospital, racing against time, he’d just one wish: to see one last time his five-and-seven-year-old doting daughters, who he’d cuddled six months ago before this hopeless treatment began; and me, of all people. All along he’d this abiding interest in my creative meddling. While on way home, the branch was cut. He’s left with one option: to see his loved ones without being seen… I heard a mild knock on the door. As I opened it, a draught blew in.
Undying Spirit
