It was all that he had left. All that he had left of a memory. For a moment he sat, turning the stone in his hands.

“This is ours, Ellan. Ours forever. Mrs. Coleman said she’d give me some cuttings from her rose and we’ll plant them out front. Can you imagine? Roses in our window, just like—”

He covered his ears. It didn’t help. The sound of her was inside of him. Yes, the house had been theirs. But when Marianne died, Ellan had been unable to bear it. The roses—the walls—the smooth wood floor—all of it was torture, meaningless, without her.

Continue reading at Wallie’s Wentletrap