Mr. Hornaby pursed his lips as he peered down into the seemingly endless darkness of the well. The darkness was so thick and so tangible that Mr. Hornaby was sure it had no bottom. It had been his morbid fascination for the last thirty-five years. The sky was strewn with colors like a painter's canvas and church bells already resounded throughout the city. Birds seemed to scold him from their resting spots on tree branches as if to tell him to bugger off. He pulled off his top hat and ran a hand through strands of wispy silver hair though he had very few to run his old hands through. They had departed his body over the years, flinging themselves into the open air like delighted children. It was quite a beautiful morning, indeed.
The well was a curiosity to Mr. Hornaby. The well hadn't been used for over fifty years. He wondered if the depths held water or if it had given way to a dirty ground that had become dry. Mr. Hornaby stomped his foot in frustration only to be awarded with a sharp dagger of pain that dug into his lower back. The old man cried out and clung to his cane for support. The narrow stick protested beneath the weight, but didn't splinter. It was well-made and well worn after years of service.
"Mr. Hornaby are you okay?" The tentative question seemed to caress his ears and tickle his eardrums. He started as he looked down and saw a south Asian girl looking up at him uncertainly. She was garbed in a simple sundress with thin white straps with one that betrayed her shoulder and instead chose to loosely embrace her upper arm. She was three feet shorter than Mr. Hornaby and had dark hair with protuberant eyes that seemed startlingly introspective for a seven year old girl. She was the neighbor's daughter, but her accent was a lot lighter than that of her parents. They were good neighbors. They had moved into the neighborhood. Mr. Hornaby wasn't privy to the particulars.
"I am quite alright," Mr. Hornaby grunted. All little old men grunt as they got older and older. He scrunched his beady eyes and peered at her through his thick spectacles. His vision had become poorer with each passing day. Sometimes it was a wonder that he could see at all. "What are you doing here, Hathai?"
Hathai gave him a gap-toothed smile and produced from behind her back a large basket holding a colorful assortment of fruits and vegetables. There were blushing mangoes, bananas embracing each other, celery stalks with shaggy leaves for hair, golden red apples, and a perverted strawberry nestled on top of the lot like a queen. "These are for you!"
"What did you say?" Unfortunately for Mr. Hornaby his hearing was nothing compared to what it once was. As a daring young lad he had often boasted of his incredible hearing to his friends. It had been a source of pride for the old man. Now it was a source of anguish and anger. Would time not let him keep anything?
Hathai didn't seem perturbed at all. "They're for you!" She chirped. As if to highlight what she was saying, she held up the basket to him.
Needless to say, Mr. Hornaby understood. He set down his top hat and grabbed the basket with clumsy fingers causing the basket to tip over and several items to fall into the callous confines of the well. "No!" Mr. Hornaby cried out, his hands desperately hoping to catch something, but they failed just as they had all of those years ago. Tears welled in the old man's eyes as he fell to his knees almost prostrating himself before the well. The rest of the basket and its contents scattered onto the ground.
If the young girl was perturbed by his odd behavior, she didn't say anything. Hathai simply placed a comforting hand on his shoulder and looked down into the darkness of the well. A sudden stillness gripped them both as they gazed into the well as if it were a thriller during its climax. Hathai didn't know what she was waiting for, but she could feel that she was witnessing a sacred moment. Mr. Hornaby certainly wasn't forthcoming about the sudden tensity in his muscles as he waited. He waited. And he waited. Surely it had to come. Surely he would finally get the answer to a lifetime of pondering. But still no sound came. It was as if the well were the jeering jowls of hell taunting those who yet lived by holding secret the items of his dearly beloved.
"Please," Mr. Hornaby whispered. He repeated the word again. "Please." Yet there was still no answer to his desperate plea. Was there no bottom to the well? Was it truly bottomless? Was the lone remnant of his wife lost forever? For thirty-five years Mr. Hornaby had come to this well each and every morning and waited. He dropped many objects into the well, but there was never a response to his tributes. The well was like a god that had been satisfied and had no use for the blathering old man.
Hathai pulled her hand from his back and began collecting what remained of the fruit into the basket. There wasn't much fruit left to collect. She looked up at him and a frown crossed her face. She had no idea what he was reliving, the pain he was enduring. She merely thought he was sad over his loss of fruit. Little children often viewed the world so simply.
"Mr. Hornaby?" Her voice was soft. The old man turned to look at her with teary eyes. "I know you're sad you lost your fruit, but there's still a little fruit left. The joy fruit gives us when we see it may be short lived, but the memory of that fruit will last a lifetime. Life is full of fruit. You just have to reach out and grab it."
The old man sat in stunned silence long after the girl had left to go home. Mr. Hornaby had mourned the loss of his wife for 35 years after she been sent on a tour in Iraq. Mr. Hornaby remembered the day she left with absurd clarity despite his increasingly spotty memory. She had stood in front of the well and he had held her one last time. Rosie had always been a vibrant, strong-willed woman. She had had a courageous heart with staunch beliefs that had pushed her into joining the army. These beliefs would also get her killed by a random car bomb. It was that day with the sun shining on her face that she had offered a young Gary Hornaby the golden necklace he had bought her during the days of courtship. He had reached out to take it but his hand had jerked and it had fallen into the well. It never made a sound.
"It never made a sound," Mr. Hornaby said with sudden clarity. "It never made a sound because it fell into the well to land directly in my heart."
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