by M.D. Smith IV
Bill and Nancy Martin married in 1955, two fresh college graduates brimming with optimism and a kind of earnest innocence that only youth and the postwar years could inspire. They moved into a modest three-bedroom house at the end of Sycamore Lane. The place had flaking white trim, a sagging porch, and a promise written into every cracked board. It wasn’t much, but it was theirs.
Bill was good with his hands and had been since he was a boy taking apart radios in his father’s garage. Nancy, patient, soft-spoken, and filled with love, could turn any room into something warm just by being there. Together, they made that house their dream.
First thing they saw in the empty house, was a fireplace brick on the hearth. It was the single item that tumbled from above. That afternoon, Bill scratched their initials on it with a steel awl, BM + NM 1955, and mortared it back in place.
They enjoyed lovely fires with oak and cedar logs that winter.
Bill Jr. arrived first, a chubby, wide-eyed baby who grew into a curious boy with a habit of dismantling toys just to see how they worked. Then came Sally, with her mother’s auburn hair and a laugh like wind chimes.
Life filled every corner of the house, toys underfoot, school shoes by the door, the scent of cookies mingling with sawdust from Bill’s constant repairs. The hearth saw Christmas mornings, birthday candles, teenage tantrums, and late-night talks when the kids came home from dates.
And always, that brick.
Every year or so, without fail, it tumbled free, landing on the hearth with a muffled clatter. Bill would sigh, fetch his tools, and lie on an old painter’s canvas, re-mortaring their “lucky brick” into place. The family joked that the house simply needed to be reminded who it belonged to.
“Guess it wants a little attention,” Bill would say, grinning as he worked.
Each time, he’d point out their initials to the children, as if retelling a fable. And each time, Nancy would smile and shake her head, her eyes soft with memory.
They went through their share of kids in accidents, a few hospital stays. The kids graduated colleges, married and had good jobs in cities far away and began their own families.
Later years, Bill needed two hip replacements from his jogging. After that, Nancy got a new knee. It never slowed the family down.
By 2020, when Bill and Nancy celebrated their sixty-fifth anniversary, and nearing ninety years old, they decided to move to a furnished care facility and sell the house. The kids got everything they wanted, and an estate sale took care of most everything else. After the movers cleaned out the house, it was as bare as when the couple bought it.
Closing the door to leave, Nancy remarked, “Oh, look, Bill. There’s something left behind.” She pointed to the fireplace brick.
He turned it over, thumb tracing the groove of their carved initials.
“What say we leave it for the next couple?” he said. “They’ll need to fix the fireplace anyway.”
Nancy smiled through tears. “Then maybe they’ll have as much luck as we did.”
She kissed him softly, and together they placed the brick where it had fallen and closed the door.
Outside, the evening sun caught the windows, setting them aglow.
Inside, the brick sat waiting on the hearth, patient as ever.
And when the door latched shut behind them, a faint sound echoed through the empty house… a quiet clink, like a promise resetting itself for the next dreamers.
━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
M.D. Smith of Huntsville, Alabama, writer of over 350 flash stories, has published digitally in Frontier Times, Flash Fiction Magazine, Bewilderingstories.com, and many more. Retired from running a television station, he lives with his wife of 64 years and three cats.
https://mdsmithiv.com/