THE LEAVING PRESENT by Lindsay Peaston

I find the basket at the back of the drawer where I keep anything I don’t know what to do with: odd sized envelopes, a single baby sock and skeins of tangled embroidery wool. The basket is made of red and green varnished raffia: probably Traidcraft. It is small but heavy, and the contents make a snippety-clicking noise when I lift it from the drawer. I remove the lid and a rolling layer of small glass balls eyes me up. Each one is School-ink Blue. A piece of graph paper, dotted with pin-mould lines the basket. I prise it out with my fingernail and read:

Dear Miss,
These are the marbles you lost
when I was in your physics group.
Love Tom B.

Bio: I have spent most of my retirement as a student. I am fascinated by how short form fiction can tell extraordinarily large stories.