Mist

English spring could not make his courtyard more beautiful. He was sitting in a chair that somehow managed his withered body, trying hard to fix the minute clutch wheel of the wrist watch. His hands were shivering owning to his old age. The magnifying lens fitted to his spectacles did no good to his vision. But wears it every time he settles to repair watches and that earns him his modest living. He used his thick unkempt nails to locate the minute yoke spring that he was trying to attach to the clutch wheel, occasionally wiping of his watery eye, which he was used to, for more than a decade now. 

Suddenly he heard a faint cry from his house. If he could hear the cry, then it should have been loud enough to a normal ear - he realized. He did not panic as he was used to such cries that seemed despair to people who didn't know them. He pushed the chair back. Got hold of his battered walking stick kept beside his chair, that could just help him support. Pierced the yoke spring onto the thermocol  sheet that he placed on the table lest he forgets where he left. Slowly walked towards his house, tapping his walking stick. His knees were bent and frail. The cry was growing more desperate. 

He entered the faintly lit room where she laid. He looked at her. This cry is the only thing that she did to make him believe that she was living. He checked if the glucose drip was empty. When air bubbles entered the veins, the pain was terrible, he knew. It was not empty. He fixed his eyes on the bed pan under the bed. But her clothes were not wet. He ruled out that possibility as well. Now there is only one more thing she cried for.  He knew. He stooped a little, leaned towards her forehead. He almost fell on her face and kissed, slobbering a little. The cry fainted and died down. He stared at his Jewish girlfriend who could never speak and walked away nodding his head.