The three remaining family members entered his old study.
The three ladies, a wife and two daughters, stood looking around.
His wife looked around and said, “It was here that he sat, day after day, during his years of retirement. He used to call it scribbling. As you know, each week he would update his blog with new posts. Short stories and poems used to be added regularly.”
Now, in this unoccupied room at the back of the house, just remnants remained in an empty room. A desk and chair, a few wall hangings and a bookcase lined with binders. These being a compendium of all his work; a series of books containing written material from his earliest writings, through to the end. Each one labelled with a year and number. Paper copies of everything!
“Perhaps we can leave it all as it is for a while, sort of… out of respect,” said one.
“Not very practical, I need the space,” said his wife. “Anyone interested in these?” she said, pointing to the row of books.
Heads shook. “Not really,” one said, “I wouldn’t know where to put them. I suppose I could use the binders… but even then; it’s a matter of space. They all nodded. “I agree,” said another, “I wouldn’t know what to do with them.”
“Seems a shame,” said one. “I could empty them out and probably find some worthy cause, or maybe a charity for the covers. Those at least, shouldn’t go to waste.”
In the corner, unseen, the departed man’s spirit just shrugged and sighed, while in the lounge his ashes turned in their urn.
He only died last week.