Frank’s wife had passed only last summer, but he never felt alone in their rambling, brick house on the corner of Mill St – not with his bugs. Some folks whispered he was a bit strange, he didn’t mind, maybe he was.
Frank woke as the brass clock began to chime four; a still warm fire crackled in the hearth.
The walls of the library were covered in dusty, framed plates displaying spiders, moths and beetles of all size and colour. On the armchair opposite, plush red sleeves and fluffy white cuffs glowed in the firelight.
He’d need to hurry – the children would be waiting.
These words form my entry into this week’s Friday Fictioneers photo prompt challenge.