Chapter Twenty-Four
The box was heavy, being filled to the brim with the one single source of pleasure remaining to Mark Briggs. Mark was fifty-three years old and felt the weight of every year of his life, much like a flower pressed in a book. He had been born in the house that he still lived in. His father had died when he was five so his devoted but overprotective mother had brought him up alone.
Then his turn had come, she had developed breathing problems, so by the time Mark was sixteen years old he was working full time and looking after his ailing mother in his spare time.
His youth had been swallowed up by the passing of his life, until five years ago when she had passed over. He sat in his chair, in a room created to be a haven to his one passion. Looking around his eyes passed
