The room was dirty. But then, the room has always been dirty, the old man thought with a sigh. Years ago, he had meant to clean it, but he had been unable to find the time. He had time now but not the strength. He could hardly raise his head anymore, much less grasp a broom to clear his little world and remove the spider and its web in the corner. But then, he wondered, would I want to? That spider has been there such a long time, almost as long as he had been here. Or had it? Maybe that was another spider. Maybe… 

He was drifting off again. The doctor had warned him against it. He needed to try and focus, to keep his mind firm. A firm mind! It made him laugh, that the doctor should fear for his mind. Once, he had been a man of towering intellect and lofty thoughts. He had written great works—answered great questions with his pen and a bit of paper. That was so long ago now. 

She wished him to write. She had asked him to, just the night before. What had he answered? “When I am stronger, child,” he had said. “When my thoughts no longer flee from me, then I shall take my pen in hand again. Then I will once again brighten the world with the light of my thoughts.” 

Light; light would be good. It was far too dark. Why was it always so dark? The lights were often lit in his room, but it had been so long since he had seen the sunlight. One could not live without light, as he had for so long. Light and life—they go together perfectly. Yet I have neither, thought the old man. They left me long ago. 

Perhaps he should call for her, have her draw the curtain back. No, better let her be. She had already done so much for him. She was so kind—so obedient. Besides, she would be tired now, since evening was settling in. Wasn’t it? It was always evening and always morning in this room, for time seemed to matter little, anyway. Whether the sun was rising or setting, he was alone. At every hour, the same shadows, the same messes, the same spider in the corner with his empty web, empty as always. Does he ever catch anything? the old man wondered. 

His thoughts were interrupted by the door. It swung open, throwing a quick shaft of light into the room. Light and life as well. Voices, laughter, and smells he’d long been apart from. A world just beyond that door, but beyond him, too. Beyond him or past him? Both, perhaps. 

Light and life, the same old pair. In swept both, in the form of her. Yes, here she was—Felicity, the eldest of his grandchildren, as well as his favorite. Was it wrong to like her best? No, for it mattered little anyway. His opinions had ceased to matter long ago, back when he had first set his writing aside. Until that day, people had trembled at his stern voice and the scoldings he delivered unto them. But they had smiled, too, hadn’t they? When he had written kindly about them or given them praise, they had felt prouder than a victorious general. 

His words once had such an effect. But no more. Now he sat alone and nearly forgotten in his dark little room. His children and grandchildren used to visit and brighten his dreary corner, but now there was only Felicity. 

True, he liked Felicity best. And she liked him best as well. They were very much alike—separated by years alone. He saw much of himself in her and thought that was a fine thing. They were like one soul separated into two bodies. The old man always admired her easy confidence and persistence. When she set her mind to something, there was no stopping her. 

Felicity had a strong mind, a kind heart, and wrote brilliantly. So different than that fool of a father she had. He’d tried to teach Felicity’s father, make him think, but the boy had only ever liked numbers. Perhaps it was the school’s fault. They’d taught him counting first, then reading. He was a fine mathematician but a fool. One couldn’t converse intelligently with him. He constantly turned back to his stocks and statistics. Safety in numbers, the old man thought. 

The light was on now. The brightness hurt the old man’s eyes. Oh, she should have warned him! Maybe she had, though; he had been lost in thought. She was carrying a book—no, a notepad. 

“Grandfather! How are you this morning?” So it was morning after all, then. “I’ve brought you something.” 

Felicity set the notepad on the old man's lap, a broad grin playing across her face. He returned her smile. How nice that he could see her. The doctor had told him to get glasses, but what did the doctor know? His eyes were fine and strong. Years of reading and writing had strengthened them beyond damage, he was sure of that. 

“And what have we here?” he asked her, “Your latest triumph? Is it an essay, or a story? Perhaps it’s a poem?” Felicity laughed and shook her flaxen curls. 

The old man opened the book and beheld a blank page. Maybe my eyes are going after all, he thought with a shudder. He turned to the next page and the next, rifling through them all in speedy succession. He turned a quizzical face towards Felicity. 

“Why, what’s this? An empty book? Is this what passes for a joke these days?” 

Again, Felicity shook her head, “No, grandfather, it’s no joke. It’s a gift!” 

The old man eyed her in mock suspicion. “So, a gift. But what for? It cannot possibly be my birthday again. I’ve seen enough of those for a lifetime.” 

Felicity smiled at his joke (she was always so quick to smile). “I got you this gift,” she said, lowering her voice to a whisper, “so that you could write again.”