A Study in Fire.

The room was large and well furnished. Sturdy oak bookcases hugged most of the walls, broken by a door and an ornate marble fireplace. The bookcases were filled with antique leather-bound volumes, various statuettes and pieces of pottery and here and there postcards were propped against the books. The locations depicted were diverse and exotic and they were a great source of nostalgia for the old man.
He sat in the darkening study before the smouldering embers of the fire. His veined, weary hands pulled tighter about his body a rich burgundy dressing gown. His hair and beard were grey but still flecked with black- his last battleground between youth and age. He sighed and rubbed his tired eyes.
“So much still to do and all this damn body does is sleep!” he muttered to himself. He had dozed off again and was irritable as a result. He sipped his coffee but it was now cold and stale. The bitterness woke him fully however, and it came to him- what he had been doing before he fell asleep.
He picked the postcard off the floor and gazed at it once more. The Eiffel Tower gleamed in the summer morning sun. Then his eyes unfocused; the gloss of the card reflected the dying fire and for a moment he saw Paris burn before his eyes.
In anguish he flipped it over and read the hasty scrawl on the back. The ink had faded but he knew the words by heart. He whispered them lightly as he read.
“Hi Henry! Paris is wonderful, I’m having so much fun! I wish you could have come but I promise I’ll tell you all about it when I get back. Love, Clare.”
Henry shook his head mournfully and tossed the card on what was left of the fire. It flared briefly, then settled back into a soft dull glow.
“Too late now,” he said and sighed. “Much too late.” A distant memory of Clare surfaced in his mind’s eye; a memory of youth. He pushed it back into the dark depths of his mind.
He stood up and doused the last coals of the fire with the cold cup of coffee. He left the room, slamming the heavy wooden door and locking it once again.