I am sitting on your bench as I write this. You may not think it as your bench, for you were never here yourself, but I assure you there are memories trapped in the woodgrain. I could not find the cinder and smoke we left breathing around the cold air. You would have loved here, dear X. I can’t really be sure but I think that is why she chose you. I hope you have found her loveliness now, because the fire burns so merrily in the grate.

With fondness,

S.