by Dan Powell
No one believes me when I say my Grandad kept Heaven in his loft like someone might a train set. On visits he’d let me sit and watch the clouds swirl their irregular orbits above the gleaming spires. Squinting you could just make out, in miniature, the figure of Peter at the gates and sometimes, seeing me looking, he’d smile and wave. Grandad left me the house and often I head up to the loft and look for him amongst all those tiny souls but I can’t help thinking that man was just too great, even for Heaven.
Dan Powell is an English writer currently living in Germany.