The Old Man In The Attic a short story

It was 7.14 in the evening and the old man sat in his attic, surrounded by things that he had collected over a lifetime. Some of the things he couldn’t even begin to imagine why he had kept but he knew they had a purpose. He looked around again and knew that some things would have to go but again, what? Everything that was here meant something to him. If they didn’t then why would they be here? That seemed logical and yet it also seemed obvious that in order to bring something new here something had to be disposed of. He slowly wandered about the attic looking carefully as he did, scrutinising everything and justifying to himself why this should stay or that should go. His eyes kept going back to one particular object, a ball. Once it had been new, perfect and looking at it brought back many memories to him. Now, though, it was old and worn. Time had ruined it and so it had to be thrown away. He reached for it and gently placed it in a sack.

It was 7.32pm when the world ended.

The End