It resurfaced from the pages of a book, fluttering to the floor from its position of responsibility marking a much loved verse.
The writing was hers, but rounder, younger. Cracked and brittle now, it was once a letter to her new husband. Written but never bestowed.
Lily read it with embarrassment. At twenty she had been in love with being ‘in love’. Had she really felt this deeply forty-five years ago? She tried to recall the moment when that feeling had slipped away.
It seemed important to remember the moment when love was replaced by something different. Something less.