Photo by Pritam Kumar from Pexels
The howling wind blew against the house as the evening approached. It shook the window shutters and doors, not caring whether or not a respected patriarch just passed to the great beyond.
Mourners dressed in black sat quietly in the spacious living room, deep in thought. Some stood staring at the floor, while a few whispered like the dead would arise if their voices got loud.
In one of the bedrooms, Stanley sat beside his dead father and held his very cold, wrinkled, stiff fingers. He massaged it a little, may be it would cause the frozen blood and flesh to live again. He looked at the face. A brave and strong-willed man was his father. A man who ruled the entire region with wisdom and without fear.
He trembled a little as a tremor ran through him. Could he live up to the man his father was? A question he asked himself since the patriarch was bedridden with illness a week ago. He knew the end had come and summoned Stanley back home to take his rightful place as the next patriarch of the region.
Stanley was lost in thoughts, he did not hear the footfalls of his little one.
"Papa?" Stanley froze in shock and turned to see his only son.
"Wha - How did you get in here?" He whispered to his son, in reverence to the dead in the room.
The innocent child of five years moved closer to Stanley while looking at the dead body of his grandfather. "Why is grandpa asleep at this time?" He asked again.
Stanley sighed, picked up his son, and walked out of the room to join the mourners.
I hope you enjoyed reading my piece. This short story is a five-minute freewrite inspired by the prompt "stiff fingers". Join 
