Young Franco unfolded the rusty chair in the middle of the cold, damp basement. One last moment to himself, one final memory before the sale was complete.
He sat silently with eyes closed. Deep, deliberate breaths followed. It wasn’t long before he heard the ghostly sounds of mortar being placed, bricks being laid.
If his great-grandfather understood the house he slaved over was being offloaded on the cheap, he would be spinning in his grave. But crippling family debt made it a reality.
So, Franco sat quietly and listened to the comforting sounds of a master craftsman he never knew.
The Weekday One Hundred 