Alice and her husband were going through her father’s attic a few days after his passing. “Michael,” she said, “come look at this.” She was holding up a large picture frame with what appeared to be detailed engraving on it.”
“That’s beautiful,” Michael said. “It looks like a carving of Don Quixote tilting at windmills.” Michael grabbed the frame. “It doesn’t look like it was signed by the engraver and there’s no plaque.” He handed the frame back to Alice.
“This is a really thick, heavy frame, isn’t it?” Alice said, shaking it slightly. “I think there’s something behind the engraving.” She tore at the brown paper on the backside of the frame. Inside she discovered a leather-wrapped sheath of papers. She opened up the sheath and gasped.
“Michael, look at this.” Alice held up the first page. It read:
The Windmills of My Mind
By Andrew Price
“What is it?” Michael asked.
“These seem to my dad’s writings and pencil sketches. Some prose, some poetry,” Alice said. “These are amazing. They’re really good, Michael. They seem to be autobiographical, too. Some date back to when he was a young man.
“What a treasure,” Michael said.
Written for today’s Sunday Photo Fiction prompt. Image credit: C E Ayr.