Old Mal creaked and groaned as he leant forward in his dusty old chair. He was bent completely double with his arm out-stretched as far as he could, but he still couldn’t reach it.
He muttered something inaudible.
“What’s that you say?” Ornelle, his wife, glanced up and over at him from her dusty chair. “Oh – what are you doing? Let me help you.”
She dragged herself up out of the chair and across the candle-lit room. She first pulled up and straightened out Old Mal. Then, she picked up his hand from the floor, which was still clutching a single wilted rose. If it wasn’t bits of him falling off, it was bits of her. It was something they were both used to after becoming undead several and then some years before.
“I wanted to surprise you.” Old Mal said, sheepishly.
“After five hundred years of you doing the same thing,” Ornelle reattached Mal’s hand, “You’d think you’d know by now that I don’t like roses.”
***
It’s February 1st. White Rabbits!
And this is my post for my new Monthly theme. I’m starting early.
The Mansionic Perspective 
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