There was this decidedly odd feeling in the pit of his stomach. He was digging through some boxes from an estate sale he'd collected them from. The old lady who'd owned it all had croaked in her sleep, ninety-something old bag. He remembered being that old before, shuffling around on two legs that didn't want to hold him up. Between that old stick he held onto and Antigone it was a wonder he made it up or down a mountain without cracking his skull open. He'd had the white hair, crows feet and all kinds of age spots on his skin. He definitely even smelled old----just like these books. Thank Zeus he wasn't a smelly old rotting pile of flesh these days.
He blew a ream of dust off one of the books, a 1900's copy of The Iliad. He cracked it open, reading the note inside that someone had put in cursive. For my darling Daniel, you are my true hero. It was signed Margaret. "Well that won't bring anything," he mumbled to himself setting it aside, that rush in his stomach hitting a little harder now, he thought he might vomit. Was there something poisonous in this damned box? Or did the love letter to Daniel in that book make him have a shooting pain of the time he did love someone and it was definitely the wrong woman?
He stilled his hand over his stomach and closed his eyes. He was ready to charge back into that box of books when that call came out so crystal clear. Dad. His eyes opened and there standing in above him was Antigone. Shit, he might just pass out.