The Box.

It’s 5 o’clock on 25 th April 2016. The sun is shining this afternoon in this little town and an old man walks slowly leaning on a cane. He wears an old black suit and a hat. He is short and skinny. His hair is gray and his body is curved.

Mr. Jones, a retired postman, arrives at the cafe and asks for a cup of tea. Suddenly a song starts playing on the radio. Immediately Mr. Jones gets serious. Then, he stands up and leaves. When the waitress comes she doesn’t see Mr. Jones. She says “Great!”, disappointed.

On the street, Mr. Jones walks thoughtfully. He comes home and sits on an armchair. After 15 minutes, he goes to the desk and takes a picture from a drawer. He looks at the smiling girl in the photo. The sad old man takes a deep breath and puts the photo on the desk again. After that Mr. Jones goes to bed.

The next morning Mr. Jones is reading a newspaper when he sees the headlines: “Billy Paul died yesterday.” The old postman takes a breath deeply and remains quiet. At this moment, the phone rings and rings and rings. After a few seconds Mr. Jones answers the phone.

- Hello, he says.

- Hello, Dick. It’s me, Laura.

Mr. Jones says nothing and turns off the phone. So he takes the newspaper and cuts out the story about Billy Paul. He puts the cutout in a blue velvet box and lays the box in his wardrobe with a single of 1972.

It’s been 44 years: a little long time to forget but also a little long time to forgive.