The shed smelt of warmth. Of trapped air and micro-debris from the surrounding garden, which had lived in the carpet off-cuts of its floor for years. As summer came again, the air remained still, in the late evening unseen rays of twilight would shine through dusty glass onto the still air. A lead-topped-peaked roof barely covered the rotting floorboards which masqueraded as a veranda. Two chairs sat slanted, between them a low table, stained with white rings from un-coastered drinks, a pack of card remained on the table, the box bleached white. The last object which remained in the shed, was a low bamboo shelfing unit, each of its three shelves sticky and empty.
Around the shed a mossy and slightly overgrown lawn started to pick up drops of moisture, in the clear dark they glisten occasionally. To step on the lawn one would notice a surprising give, a dampening depth and moisture to each footstep that would take you by surprise.

Most people won’t walk on wet grass in the middle of the night, some do and they will know this feeling. The great expanse of the lawn looks undisturbed, curving around a picturesque cottage. Inside the cottage, a light comes on and a figure slowly treads down a thin staircase. The shed, or “sun-house”, as it was once known, sits against a backdrop of over grown rhododendrons. It blends in perfectly, cracked and flaking paint dulling it against the shine of the leaves, the dirty glass doors shimmer. In daylight, the paint is a giveaway of its age, a job which is no longer deemed important enough or which no longer has willing volunteers. Brushmarks which streak the corners of the few windows display amateurism and possibly hint at the work of unpracticed hand.

While this isn’t daylight, the early summer night is almost as bright. The nearest street light is over three miles away and the sky is awash with astral specs and blobs.
The still of the night is disturbed by an unsavoury squeak of wood being pushed over wood. The lone figure from the stairs closes the door behind him. He is an elderly man, in his sixties probably. He walks with a tired, defeated stoop, or the bent back of a man who cannot sleep and has reluctantly gone out to his garden to admire the beautiful still of the night. In fact, he is both.
He takes a few steps out of his door and feels and hear the crunch of gravel under each foot. Something in him can’t disturb the night and he takes a step onto a flagstone, laid by means of a path, leading on to the undisturbed lawn. As he moves slowly, ponderously, unaware of what he is going to do next, his breath occasionally leaves him and clouds of condensed breath disappear over the garden. As he makes his first step onto the lawn, he isn’t surprised by the sense of his weight on the grass, and of the wet grass on his foot. He looks at his leather slipper and feels blades of grass touch the ball of his ankle. His labored gait seems uncharacteristic but could be recognized clearly as the semi-conscious prevention of noise. The technique, mastered over years now, is let down briefly as one slipper rolls further under his weight than expected. The disruption of the lawn causes him to limp to the focal point of the garden, moisture seeping in around his toes.

He pads his way over to the sun-house, the next mornings dew flicking up at him. He knows to stand to the right of the door as he steps onto the veranda boards, these creak the least. He opens the door and a slight warmth breezes out, the shed breathes. He goes to his chair and sits down, his legs bent and spread in front of him. He adopts a once familiar position and rests on one elbow, his fingers fritter between his legs or at his side, examining the frayed and faded seat covers.
“Hello.” he says out loud to the night.
He adjusts his position so the weight of his torso comes to rest on his elbows as he turns his head to look at the empty chair beside him. The spectacular light from the moon above highlights the joins in the carpet below him, the darkness mutes their colours. He sits back again, into total darkness, the light casts the opposite of a shadow across the front of shed, a strange geometric shape from one door which is open and the other which is closed.
‘I said to myself I wouldn’t do this again this year.’ he thinks to himself. ‘This is habit building.’
‘The noise prevention is in vein now.’ he thinks, acknowledging the sagging empty chair again.
The sound of a nearby owl breaks his frown and he looks out to the garden. The dull pain of looking at a garden. He was sickened at himself, the fence facing him was overgrown with roses, the fringes of the lawn were uncut and raggedy. These jobs seemed like such a chore now, simple things which he would have volunteered to do before. He had tried to employ the grand kids but they weren’t interested. The last thing they had done in the garden which had seemed fun had been paint the shed. Another thing which needed doing. He swallowed to himself and looked at the chair beside him again.
‘There is no point in doing this again.’ He thought of his son and all they had discussed. ‘He’s right, there is no point in putting myself through this again.’
He stood up and turned to look into the darkness of the shed, he took a step over and turned around again and sat down in his chair. His back straight and his knees bent and cocked, his nails picked at the seat cover furiously as he ate his tears.
There was something which thought that he could hear her voice but knew that he couldn’t. Some part of him which was old and failing, the part which controlled sensory input, it misfired; The time which he had spent sitting in the sun-house, the smell, the stale sunlight all signaled in him an autonomous motion and his hand reached over briefly, falling on the deck of faded cards. His head glanced over again as if to check whether there was a mistake.
‘No mistake.’
He thought of the books they had read together sat there, the cards in his hands felt heavy and his hand fell to rest on the table. The sticky surface of it disgusted him.
The previous year, after she had died, he had found himself coming out here most nights.  Sleep seemed impossible until he had sat in the night air. He hated the rain and the cold for different reasons now. He had managed this late into the Autumn as they also had done in happier circumstances, then he’d retired indoors and hibernated. The blackness of winter had passed him by and he was surprised that he hadn’t died during the winter. That a part of him hadn’t recognized the pain within him and had him slip on black ice and hit his head, leaving his eyes for the crows. The same part which made him reach for the cards. But he’d emerged, or survived. He breathed in the musk of the room, his hand dropped the cards and tried to pat the leg that wasn’t there. His face tried to smile to at the face that wasn’t there and he sat back in his chair and waited until he felt a sleep which wasn’t there.

Normally he’d pad back across the lawn, hours or minutes later. But tonight he felt more comfortable, more at home than in his own bed. He waited, the owl called into the night and he waited. The pain was no longer the searing agony, it was worse, nondescript and fuller. Empty. He thought of his son again, he thought of the therapist. ‘Life will go on.’ and he wished it wouldn’t, he didn’t care now. The night enveloped him, his thoughts raced and slowed and he looked again at the chair beside him. His wife’s chair, except she wasn’t there. He felt confused and restful and decided to return indoors. He tried to conjure the passages of books which made him think of her, they were somewhere else too. He tried to think of her but he couldn’t. His hand reached instinctively out to the glass-door as his frame fell across the ‘veranda’. The world spun as the figure fell awkwardly over and finally, he slept.

The crows had his eyes and his son cursed his death, more for the inconvenience than the tragedy. No one paid any heed to the shed which was already empty of its contents, bar two old chairs.

____________________________________________________________________________________________
Alternate –
The night enveloped him, his thoughts raced and slowed and he looked again at the chair beside him. His wife’s chair, except she wasn’t there. He tried to conjure the passages of books which made him think of her. He tried to think of her but he couldn’t.

And he slept.

 

____________________________________________________________________________________________That had been hanging around for ages and I wanted to put something up.
It was a little hard to finish (as it is personal somehow and therefore impossible to capture perfectly). I’ve thus included the original end which I now think was weaker. Not that anyone cares.

You can’t polish a turd, but you can agonize over posting an overly sentimental short story to an audience of 4.

Mr Hummels

Coming to nothing near you, never.

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