The Little Ferrari

She played the piano like a dreamer, her delicate fingers caressing fragile notes that bubbled up through the window, filling the valley’s misty air. And then she’d sing to herself, quavering, soul-tipped melodies that were forever breaking his heart.  

“Let’s fly away, Reg,” she’d cry. “Let’s get ourselves a nice car and fly away from this place. Let’s follow the setting sun.” 

That Christmas, she’d torn the wrapper from a model Ferrari, an exact replica down to the finest detail. A tiny number plate gleamed below a set of reflective headlights and within the open-top interior, cream-leather seats were complete with elegant navy stitching. Laughing, she had leapt into his arms, pressing her cheek against his shoulder and smiling that tender, gentle smile reserved just for him.  

“Until I get you the proper one, my love,” he’d whispered, “this will have to do.”’ 

A smile now danced across the corners of his wrinkled face as he held the little Ferrari, dust sugar-coating the scarlet, untarnished paintwork. A small tear traced a worn path down his cheek.  

He placed the car back into its box and clipped a pink plastic carnation to the lapel of his blazer.  

His gaze lingered on the old sitting room, untouched and now somehow empty. Faces gleamed from frames, windows into a life spent smiling. The old piano sat in the corner with its lid raised, as if waiting to be played by fragile fingers. Laughter floated in through the open window. 

Reg smiled - a tender, gentle smile reserved just for him. He closed the piano lid, kissed the tip of his finger, and stepped out into the Aberbleino sunshine. 

It was a beautiful day.