By My Own Hand by Chris Tattersall

My humble home had been violated by thieves. They took a worthless souvenir that I had crafted for my now deceased wife. It had only sentimental value.

After years, I finally tracked my quarry to a basement. A man sat alone, oddly taking extraordinary care with the stolen object. I watched, as with gloved hands he wrapped it in linen and placed it carefully in a draw.

I gripped his neck. His face changing in colour from pink, through crimson and purple to a pale mottled blue.

As his life faded, I re-opened the draw marked ‘500 to 1000 BC’.