The bedside clock glowed ’06:25′; downstairs, the chain on the front door rattled.
‘Is it him again?’ said Kathy.
I rolled out of bed and peered through a small gap in the curtains.
‘It is – could you please ring them, dear?’
On the front doorstep a confused, hollow-cheeked, old man stood staring in silence at his rusted Yale key.
‘Come in,’ I said.
As we sat waiting, he demanded to know who I was, while informing me, in his usual matter-of-fact fashion, that I was squatting illegally in Middleham’s Motors.
I smiled and stroked my father’s hand as bright, white headlights flooded the courtyard.
These words form my entry into this week’s Friday Fictioneers photo prompt challenge.