This was submitted to The First Line Literary Journal
Mrs. Morrison was too busy to die.
Stacks of books laid everywhere; papers from the last sixty years were strewn across her desk. Her old green eyes scanned the clutter in front of her. Where was it?
The only sound that accompanied her was the sound of rummaging–and the occasional tea sip coming from a tall and thin young man stationed right by her desk.
“Found it yet?” the man questioned before taking another sip of tea.
Mrs. Morrison could only glare as she sifted through boxes and boxes of ancient, wonderful memories. Anyone would stop to reminisce on the days of old, but not her: she had a job to do.