"And a bittersweet feeling had finally encompassed her, for this surely wasn't the end. But how could it not be, without him beside her?"
- nyctopholia

ONE YEAR LATER -

She sits at the table of the adoption agency, watching the children talk in hushed voices. Wide eyed and hopeful, they giggle and laugh and hug one another whilst squabbling with the toys in front of them. Their innocence is contagious—she smiles softly, something that she rarely does, but in the midst of that action she remembers him, and she smiles no longer.

Beyond the curtains, summer is rife. It is late September, and the autumn leaves have begun to chime: although there is heat she can not feel it, and has not felt it for so long. Even at her friend's wedding, now Mrs A. James, she did not feel the bliss that engulfed everyone else: the maidens that grinned with awe could not sympathise with her, the maid of honour's, somber glances at the wedded couple. The dress of white that had trailed against the corridors now lies stained with mud against the back of her door. Her friend has moved on, bore children, and is married.

The first child, as promised, is called Amandine.

But she does not care for names and sentiments—or she hadn't before that moment in which the curtains flapped against a lonely boys face, whose eyes of amber gleamed in the midday sun. And him alone sat upon the window sill, his body small and cowering, his eyes shifting from the kids to the toys. Fingers twitching, all small and chubby, but hesitant in their reach, she knew he wanted to go to them—

—but he couldn't. Amber hair falls across his face, tickling the faint hairs of his brow. The boy shakes his head, tapping his fingers against his lap.

One, two, three; one, two, three; one, two, three.

She looks away from him, leaving the boy to bathe in the sunlight. The toy he stared at lies in the hands of another: a small girl with curled pigtails, wearing a yellow dress. A soldier nestles in the palm of her minuscule hands, secured within her grip. He, the soldier, wears a khaki uniform, and his face is an expression of severity and authority.

She sighs melancholy. Something clamours at her heart. Her throat hitches. She feels the tears she's long forgotten.

The soldier.

It looks just like him.

"Excuse me, Miss," she says to the little girl, whose large blue eyes stare upon her with awe. "Can I have a look at that toy you have?"

The girl only nods, eyes watching her as she walks towards the lonely boy sitting in the corner. He looks at her as she approaches, taking in her beige dress that fell to her calves. The shoes upon her feet are worn and tattered, but the warmth that radiates from her smile spoke more than her dressing.

No one had ever approached him before.

"You wanted this?" Is all she says, kneeling beside him. He examines her hands, the fingers loose around the toy soldier, and slowly approaches it. Fumbling with the toy between his hands, he looks up to her and smiles—and when he does, something is brought to her. Some innocence, some long, forgotten warmth. His smile is crooked upon his face, lips scarred and dimples protruding against his rounded cheeks.

"Thank you." He whispers, looking out of the window. Bathing in the sunlight, he plays with his toy.

Thank you.

They were the first words he wrote to her.

"What's your name?" She presses on. She knows he ended the conversation, but she can not help but continue. Something about him is different from the others. Something about him . . .

He stares at her. There is something distant in his eyes. He looks away, eyebrows furrowing: "I don't know."

She only nods her head. "I know a name that will really suit you."

There—a flicker of hope in his eyes.

"What is it?"

She smiles.

"Jake Warrens."

—

Weeks have passed. Autumn has settled. Winter is rife. December has dawned upon the mother and son as they walk through the bundles of houses, smiling and laughing and talking. They are both happier than they have been in months, happier than ever before. Of course there is a crater in her heart—she wishes to have him beside her. But it is okay, the wound has begun to heal.

She has finally accepted her fate.

She never loved again. No other has made her feel the way that he made her feel; and that is okay, she understands that life is difficult and harsh. She understands that not everything goes easily in life.

They enter the home that is shared with her friend, Mollie James, who nurses her newborn and watches her eldest child, the young Amandine, run around gleefully. As they enter, Amandine runs to Jake, taking him by the hand. She watches them leave, smiling softly but sad—Mollie understands, nodding her head and watching her exit the house.

It has been a year and two months since he passed away.

At the grave she stops smiling—she stops being okay, she stops being strong. For this is the last moment she has to breakdown, to cry and scream and curse the fates for being unfair. Against the hailing rain of winter, which turns the nestled snow into ice, she sobs aloud and ferociously—she falls to her knees and grasps the snow as though it is a hand to hold.

It is not.

She is alone.

In her pocket nestles three notes, and the only three things she has found permanence in. Three graces that she holds onto to realise that he was true—and that it, every moment of her true happiness, was not a lie. She has no photos, no drawings or paintings, but she has memories. Memories, and these three things.

Thank you.

I love you.

And the letter.