With his trademark silence, Church Mouse finished polishing the last of the marble. He hadn’t said more than a word since his wife passed, but he kept the place clean. This had been her job, once—the sweeping and polishing. A job that had allowed them to keep the tiny apartment in the rectory.
She had always been the provider, really, and always let him know it. She never shut up.
The fall had been a tragic accident, they said.
Her poor husband, they said.
He picked up the mop and kept his mouth shut.
“Quiet as a church mouse!”
Trying out the Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.