I marveled at the current state of my grandfather’s living room – far more claustrophobic than I ever remembered. The stacks of yellowed newspapers were higher, and the piles of tattered magazines had multiplied.
And yet, it was somehow better.
Every stack was gathered with an orderly precision, and every pile was curiously organized by month and year.
My grandfather saw my bewildered expression and grinned.
“I do have some help,” he told me.
Just then a pair of ghostly figures hurried past. My shirt and hair fluttered in the supernatural breeze.
The old man’s eyes twinkled.
“And that’s my help.”
The Weekday One Hundred 