A kid and his treasure

Several kilograms of dust covered the furniture and accumulated in the corners, and when the window opened, not without effort, a portion of those particles began its journey in suspension to the passage of light that came along with the rusty squeak.

Where does dust come from, uh?

His eyes began to sting him. Usually allergic, he was surprised that he didn't feel like sneezing. Only itchy eyes.

Another thing: his cloth had kept a dapper white color.

He was there, turning around the objects and, more than that, something like memories. Of course, he said very softly, when he found the white moth that ended its days there. It had been his friend, his treasure, the most precious rarity of his childhood, but the dust of its wings irritated his eyes and, therefore, his grandma chased it until the moth hid. The oldest moth in the world, which was still peeling in those rooms of his memory, so long closed.

The great-granddaughter came to the nursing home, to visit him. Some time ago she didn't hear him say anything. She noticed that he was squeezing his eyes a lot. When she returned home, she telephoned the grandmother and told her, slightly excited: He was very clean, his white pajamas shone. Today said "moth"! And I think we have to get him artificial tears or something like that...