Wood Chip and Oil
100-word memories
She swung, legs kicking aimlessly as loneliness pecked away at her. Memories of waiting outside the workshop while the swing was made. She could hear the grating whirr of the saw and the whistling. She pursed her lips, trying to recreate the sound. Tears soaked her cheeks as the robin cocked his head, examining her quizzically. She felt comforted, the painful absence receding. Remembering the hand on her shoulder, her grandfather smelling of woodchip and oil. She missed him so, silently wishing they could share this moment. She felt the hand on her shoulder and sighed happily.
It was Him.
I do love a friendly ghost...