The Bear in the Window

Arthur's hands trembled slightly as he popped his daily vitamin into his mouth — the same ritual performed faithfully for forty years. At eighty-three, he supposed the little orange tablet was more habit than help, but his wife Eleanor had always believed in the power of doing something good for yourself, even when you couldn't quite remember why you'd started.

The grandfather clock chimed seven times. Sunday morning. That meant Henry would be arriving soon with little Sophie, his eight-year-old granddaughter who looked at Arthur as if he held all the secrets of the universe.

He settled into his worn armchair by the window, reaching for the old teddy bear that had lived on his side table since Eleanor passed. The bear's fur was matted in places, one eye slightly droopy — much like Arthur himself these days. But Sophie loved him immediately, naming him "Bernard" after her own tattered companion.

"Grandpa?" Sophie's voice carried from the hallway before her face appeared around the doorframe. "Are we going to Egypt today?"

Arthur smiled. "Today, my sphinx-expert, we're traveling to 1963."

She scrambled onto the rug beside his chair, Bernard tucked under her chin. "Again?"

"The best stories deserve repeating." Arthur adjusted his glasses. "Your grandmother and I stood before the Great Sphinx, sand still clinging to our shoes from the camel ride. The sun so hot I thought my hat would melt. But there it was — that creature with the lion body and human head, watching us with stone eyes that had seen five thousand years of humans come and go."

"And what did it say?" Sophie whispered.

"The sphinx speaks no words, but it asks a question without speaking: What will remain when you're gone?" Arthur's voice softened. "Your grandmother took my hand and said, 'Love, Arthur. That's what stays.'"

Sophie considered this, solemn-faced. "Like Bernard. He'll stay because he's loved."

"Exactly."

"Grandpa?"

"Yes, my sphinx?"

"When you're really old — like ninety — will you remember this?"

Arthur laughed, a warm rumble. "Some things carve themselves into you deeper than stone. Being loved does that to a person."

She nodded satisfied, curling against his chair. "Bernard thinks you should tell me about the camel next."

Arthur adjusted his glasses, ready for another journey through time. Some treasures, after all, only grew more precious with the telling.