Click. Click. Click. Click.

The rusted tin soldier marches with faltering steps across the table. You catch it just before it goes off the edge and cradle it in your hands. You begin to put it in the box with the other toys, then stop yourself. Just one more time. Gently, you wind the key, and the soldier resumes his walk.

Click. Click…

As it moves, you continue cleaning out the room. Your daughter’s posters on the walls come down. Her sheets are stripped from the bed, and a spare set placed in the closet. The desk is moved back against the wall, not canted to the middle of the room like Laura preferred. You notice you missed a few items on the desk. You set aside the pens and pencils without a second thought, but pause to examine scraps of paper. Old homework. An ill-considered, long-forgotten poem. Sketches. You spread these out on the table, running a careful finger along the black lines.

Click. Click…

You’d always known Laura was good with drawing, but it had still been a surprise that she made it into art school. You are happy for her. You are! You repeat that firmly in your head. Not many people have the opportunities that your daughter has. You had a speech prepared to console her, in case she didn’t do as well as her brother. Instead, she managed to enter an even more prestigious university than him. You watch the soldier pacing away across the tablecloth, and wish that world-famous universities didn’t have to be quite so far from home. This time when the soldier reaches the end of the table, you let it fall to the floor. The carpet muffles the sound of the toy’s impact. For the first time in decades, not a single childhood sound disturbs the silence of the house.

Originally for Theme Thursday: Mute