Life was hard, and it was cruel. The old man rubbed his eye. A mass of scars and lumpy flesh was all he was able to feel in his right eye, and it made him grimace, it always did. He walked over to his front door and opened the door to a beautiful misty morning. The sea had a way of bringing in the fog, and with it, even deeper dampness than the average man is used to.

He hailed the Thatcher boy; “Are the barrels at the usual place?”

The boy slowed just enough for a mumbled “Yes” to be heard before hurrying off to wherever he was trying to be.

The old man scratched his butt, before making his biweekly walk down to the port. The town was already awake, only the rich or the lazy had the fortune to sleep in and waste precious daylight.

The old man was certainly not rich.

A short walk later the man found himself at the port's office. The old widow in charge of the books didn’t look at him. The old man turned to the left and picked up what he was after. Two small barrels shin high. The old man hoists them up. There is a trick to this. You have to hoist one up to under your arm then tilt the other so that you can slide your foot under the other. From there, you have to pull with your foot and your remaining hand. A bit of a process, but who was going to help him?

The old man walked back. He had to go back to his home. He greeted the townsfolk as he walked, no point in being impolite. When he was back at his house he set the barrels down and got his spike. He called it that, because it wasn’t quite a crowbar, a failed attempt from the smith's apprentice. A very new apprentice at that. “How do you even mess up a straight bit of iron” The old man wondered for the umpteenth time. The barrel opened, showing the oil within. A few bits of skin floated on top of the second barrel. The old man frowned at that.

“Poor work”

He got a skimmer out from its place on the wall. The light brown oil shimmered in the morning light as he got the skin scraps out of it. He poured the barrel into the metal wheelbarrow-like device by the door and grabbed the ladle from its nail. Whistling to himself, he made his way back out. He had customers to satisfy.

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Knocking on doors is a universally awkward process. That’s why the old man didn’t bother with it. He smirked as he walked in. What was an old man going to do? He was on the line between decrepit and a foot in the grave, and everyone he knew was too afraid to find out exactly where on the line he was.

People were funny like that, with the whole potential death thing.

Back to the house.

One of the bigger homes in his clientele, it contained four rooms and a cellar. He made his way to the brass lamp made to be a centerpiece on a table. A clever little thing, it was a specialty piece that the lady of the house had brought from Britain.

He popped off the top which pulled the wick out from it. The reservoir of oil was half empty. He filled it up to the brim.

Putting the lamp in its original position, he made sure he centered it back on the table. Making something look good usually makes someone happy. And as he turned to go-this was the only lamp in the house, he saw the missus of the house, Clara.

“Anthony! I see you let yourself in.”

He just grunted, “I looked for you but alas, you were nowhere to be found and I did need to get to work”

She looked at him, quirked her eyebrow, and stepped in to set down the bucket she was carrying.

" Well, I hardly suppose a busy man such as yourself should be held back from the many duties that necessitate your attention.”

He stiffened his face “I do need to go inspect Ms. Robinson's lamps after this.”

“More like her pantry, don’t think that I haven’t noticed the weight you’ve been putting on.” She poked his gut and he winced. The problem with visiting a baker's widow is that the woman is set on making sure any guest would be filled with the finest food available.

The old man stilled himself, he was getting carried away.

“Well I need to get going, a pleasure as always Clara”

He walked out of the house, pushing his wheelbarrow.

One down, two more to go.

He took a left, it was basically a straight shot to Ms. Robinson's house from the Wrights, now that the morning was beginning to pass, nearly everyone in the town was up and about.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

Which made it all the more annoying to push through people. For God's sake, couldn’t they see that there was an old man trying to get through?

Shouldering aside a particularly dense man, he continued his walk.

The increase of muttering behind him was probably something he should pay attention to, but he was busy.

He was near the center now. Before Mr. Robinson died the shop was incredibly busy. As of now Ms. Robinson made do making delicate pastries which covered the daily expenses fairly well. Luckily, “or unluckily,” he thought to himself, the marriage was young, so there were no children yet.

Pulling up to the shop, he made his way in. Ms. Robinson was working with a customer so he gave her a smile and wheeled his ‘barrow to the door leading to the back of the house. He would get the lamp in the storefront on the way out. Didn’t want to affect sales if there were already customers in shop.

She needed it.

He went through his process, unscrewing the more hardy lamp that Mr. Robinson had bought for the early morning work. It had a metal cage for the anticipated knocks against the wall or floor and was cast iron and squatter in shape.

Another old friend, the old man filled it up.

As he screwed on the cap, the conversation from the front ended, “Just in time” he thought and wheeled his way back to the front.

“Dana! How are you? I hope you’ve saved me some strawberry rolls!”

Mrs. Robinson smiled “Yes Anthony, they’re in the back, I’m surprised you didn’t already grab some.”

He smiled to match her smile: “Well strawberry rolls are meant to be eaten together.”

“Her smile turned a little. “Yes, I suppose they are.”

Anthony worked to get the platter from the back out. She needed to think about something else, too much time in her head isn’t good.

As they talked Anthony made an effort to work smiles out of Dana, from what situations the horribly nosy neighbor had found herself in when she had found a rather defensive dog, to the future of the town, to more serious topics.

A couple of hours passed.

Anthony suddenly stopped talking, he made as if to look out the window and looked back at Dana.

“My other delivery! Oh, I must get going,” Standing up he slowly made his way to his tools.

There was more than one reason to go. Distracting her was good, but at the same time, he should let her return to real life.

The same went true for himself as well.

Waving goodbye, he started walking. Old Hardy was last.

Again, he began to make his way to the town. Hardy was convenient because his house was on the same road back to the old man's house.

Very convenient.

It was almost as if the old man had made it so.

Mid-afternoon had hit and the mist was all but gone. Walking up to the last house he took his time entering, trying to figure out if anyone was in.

Unfortunately, the old man was in.

“Nothing for it but to go in,” the old man thought and moved to the door.

Uncharacteristic of him, he knocked.

After a short pause, someone bellowed from the inside: “Whattya want?”

“It’s Anthony” he supplied.

“Oh.”

A bit of shuffling and then the sound of the latch being lifted, and the door has opened a crack.

“Come on in”

Anthony walked into the first room. Old Hardy was a schoolteacher, no, THE schoolteacher. He had been teaching kids for this town longer than Anthony had lived here.

And as a side effect, he knew everyone's business, not that he pulled or pried into it. He just knew, and the knowing discomforted Anthony.

Walking over the lamp to fill, he checked how much he had left. He usually did it perfectly so that he had no oil left over when he went back home, but today he had extra.

The teacher’s lamp was a bottom-heavy, ugly thing. A massive reservoir of oil compared to more elegant options, it had one sole purpose: to last as long as humanly possible.

Anthony snorted to himself; “Too like his owner”

He finished up and put the little circular wick holder back in place, then replaced the glass protector to its place.

He was done, no–

“Anthony, is it today?”

Hardy’s voice from the other room. Anthony considered the question and answered:

“Yes”

As Anthony walked out again, he was disturbed. Too much to remember, but still Hardy knew.

The short trip to Hardy’s had hardly taken any time, so the afternoon had only progressed a little, maybe making its way into the early bits of the evening.

He was almost done. Just one more thing to do. He walked to his house, noticeably faster this time. After all, someone could hardly be late to a date, especially one so important as an anniversary.

Pulling his wheelbarrow he went inside. He grabbed the book and he grabbed the handful of flowers he had prepared the day before. Asters, they were her favorite. He grew them for this express purpose of this day every year.

He stepped out of the house and tucked the items away on the wheelbarrow. Taking it up he turned in the opposite direction of the town.

Away from the town, towards the small cemetery, the old man walked.

Walking through the entrance and looking over the grounds, he saw that no one else was there, which was just fine for his purposes.

Walking along the path that meandered through the graves he made his way over to the small tree and sat down.

He had made this bench ten years ago when sitting on the hard ground began to be painful.

Pulling out his ladle, he reached down to fill the last lamp of the day.

After all, the light was beginning to fade, and he would need the light for the reading to be done.

The lamp was actually a wedding gift to her, it seemed appropriate that an Elliman would gift something to her so closely associated with his craft. It was delicate, small, and well-polished. He made sure of that.

Opening up the book he began to read aloud. The number of short stories available was always too little for his wife, the avid reader she was.

As the sun began to set, Anthony kept reading. The shadows caught on the asters, coating the purplish flowers in the dying golden rays.

By the time he finished the book, it was well into the night, there was just a crescent moon to go by, so besides the glowing circle that his late wife's lamp provided, it was dark out.

The darkness, provided the empty canvas he wanted to stare into, a place to paint his gaze anywhere and still not see anything or anyone.

The old man stared out into the darkness, and wondered, just like every night like this for the last twenty-seven years;

“Why did she have to go so soon?”

The old man traced out his right eye, feeling along the raised flesh that robbed his sight, and answered himself:

“Sometimes, life is cruel”

And then, he looked back at the little lamp and smiled.

Why did he do this every year?

Because Anthony knew, knew as surely as when he married Eloise, that keeping the memory of his little lamp happy meant something.

And that meaning, that reason, kept him going so that he could light the lamp the next year.

He sat in the small pool of light and looked to the wonderful memories that he could paint on the black canvas of the night.

He sat there until dawn, and taking his wheelbarrow again, made his way back home.