From a lonely library, hanging by a thread, I took a book – last loaned fifty years past. From between its waxy pages a solitary slip of paper slid:
‘He suspects. It’s tonight or never. You – My all.’
A rendezvous unfulfilled; a burr that kept catching.
Necessity employed me as sleuth. The previous lender’s faded name led me to buildings long vacated and to a rain-soaked grave, the date of departure fifty years past.
Standing over the headstone – a man, unfeasibly old.
‘You were her husband?’
‘No, her… her other.’
‘I believe this was for you.’
Written for: Thin Spiral Notebook (100 Word Challenge)