the rain that drov

e day, which had promised sunshine, had instead draped itself in mist and melancholy. Adeline, restless and unable t

it - and when she did, it was with a fond sigh, as if the room cont

ly, brushing aside cobwebs, her fingers trailin

gh a small circular window, casting a golden haze over trunks, baske

h, or an old journal. What she found instead was a wooden bo

f them. Bound in ribbon,

y a moment before

graceful, ink slightly faded but still clear. The letters wer

one bega

earest

do when the wind smells like something new, and when

p, poetic longing. Her grandmother had written about starlit walks and stolen kisses by the riverside, about war-time fears and the ache of distanc

lear: Samuel had been the lov

e. But you were the dream I had to fold awa

and grief. She had known her grandmother to be strong, dignified, wise. But t

t for the woman who had passed, but for th

-

ain still whispering against the windows. She had brought one of the lett

that burn brightest. Sometimes we

f how he never pushed, never pried, but was present

nt gate

she saw him - umbrella in one hand, a parcel in the other.

door before h

d," she scolded, bu

e parcel. "It's a book. About medicinal herbs. My wife an

efully, reverently.

day," he said. "I wasn't sure

. found some letters. My grandmother's. Abo

owly. "That must've

ve up. What we settle for. And what we quietly

ked a loose strand of hair behind her ear - a gesture s

your grandmother woul

ld've said it made the f

nger, the storm humming around them,

-