Mr. Woodifield, a retired gentleman who has recently experienced a stroke, finds himself seated in the office of his former employer. Due to concerns for his well-being, his wife and daughters generally confine him to the comforts of home. However, he is granted a weekly respite on Tuesdays when he is allowed to make a special trip to the city. On these occasions, Mr. Woodifield chooses to spend his time visiting an old friend and former boss.

Mr. Woodifield is genuinely appreciative of the boss's office and expresses his admiration for its cozy ambiance. The boss, basking in the compliment, takes the opportunity to proudly showcase various recent improvements made to the office. These upgrades encompass the plush carpeting, the elegant bookcases, and the state-of-the-art heating system.

Curiously, the boss tactfully sidesteps mentioning a photograph displayed in the office, which captures his son in military uniform. This picture, now six years old, stands in stark contrast to the otherwise freshly updated surroundings. As their conversation unfolds, Mr. Woodifield, struggling with memory lapses, hints at having something he wishes to share with the boss but grapples with the details.

Moved by Mr. Woodifield's struggle to recollect his thoughts, the boss playfully suggests a remedy. He produces a bottle of whiskey and, with a generous spirit, offers some to his old friend. Since Mr. Woodifield's home regimen restricts him from indulging in such pleasures, he gladly accepts the offer. The boss promptly pours them both a glass of this spirituous elixir, a gesture that ultimately aids Mr. Woodifield in recovering the thought that had eluded him.

With newfound clarity, Mr. Woodifield recalls the purpose of his visit, sharing a poignant story. He recounts how his daughters, during a recent trip to Belgium, had ventured to a cemetery where they chanced upon the grave of someone named Reggie. To his surprise, they had also discovered the resting place of the boss's son. Mr. Woodifield describes the cemetery with its serene beauty, and he inquires whether the boss himself has paid a visit to this hallowed ground. In response, the boss remains largely silent, acknowledging Mr. Woodifield's comments about the vibrant flowers and well-kept paths with little more than a nod.

Continuing his conversation, Mr. Woodifield shifts his focus to a seemingly trivial matter. He recounts a situation where he believes his daughters were overcharged by a hotel for a simple pot of jam. To his amusement, the boss concurs with his assertion, though there is a hint of uncertainty in his agreement, as if he may not entirely comprehend the specifics of what he's endorsing.

After Mr. Woodifield's departure, the boss remains in a contemplative silence. He directs Macey, the office manager, not to disturb him for the next half hour, seeking solitude to grapple with the unexpected emotions stirred by Mr. Woodifield's mention of his son's grave.

As the boss sits alone, his head nestled in his hands, he anticipates a flood of tears. He recalls the image of his son resting in his grave, untouched by time's passage. However, contrary to his expectations and despite his soft mutterings, tears remain elusive. He reflects upon the contrast with the months following his son's tragic death, marked by intense and violent fits of grief. At the time, he was convinced that the passage of time could never mend the anguish he felt.

His thoughts drift to the profound efforts he had invested throughout his life in preparing his son to inherit the family business. It had been a year of dedicated learning and evident promise, abruptly interrupted by the war. The boss fondly recalls the compliments he had received about his son's competence, his amiable nature, and his sunny personality.

Lastly, the boss's mind lingers on the day when the heart-wrenching telegram arrived, announcing his son's demise. Though six years have elapsed, the pain remains raw, as though the news had arrived only yesterday.

In the midst of his emotions, the boss gazes at a photograph of his son. It's not his preferred image, as he finds his son's stern countenance somewhat unnatural, a far cry from the boy's living presence. His focus shifts when he notices a fly struggling in an inkpot, its wings weighed down by the liquid. With a gentleness that contrasts with his own internal turmoil, he uses his pen to lift the fly onto a blotting-paper.

Observing the tenacity of the fly as it meticulously cleans its legs, wings, and face, readying itself for flight once more, the boss is moved. He decides to challenge the fly further, dropping another drop of ink onto it. Though initially stunned, the resilient insect perseveres, albeit a bit slower the second time. The boss is struck by a newfound admiration for the fly, a silent acknowledgment of its indomitable spirit and courage.

The boss, caught up in this curious diversion, drops a third droplet of ink onto the fly. With each successive encounter, the fly's movements grow more feeble. Nonetheless, he feels a sense of relief when it manages to begin its cleansing routine for the third time. He even contemplates blowing gently to aid the struggling insect. At this point, he finds himself engaging in a peculiar one-sided conversation with the fly, offering words of encouragement.

The boss resolves that the fourth ink drop will be the last challenge he subjects the fly to. Regrettably, when the ink falls for the fourth time, the fly ceases to move, its tiny legs trapped in the viscous liquid. The boss attempts to revive the fly with the tip of his pen, even shouting some words of encouragement, but it remains lifeless. He tosses the lifeless insect away, a wave of revulsion washing over him, a feeling so intense it startles him.

In haste, he calls for Macey to bring fresh paper to replace the stained one. Left alone once again, the boss struggles to recollect the train of thought that had led him to this peculiar experiment. As he absentmindedly pats the sweat from his collar, he realizes with frustration that his prior contemplations have slipped from his grasp.