She keeps his letters in a box. It's a pretty box, and while she can't remember where she got it from, she likes to think it was always meant for this specific purpose.
Sometimes she just holds it in her hands, wondering if perchance they carved it out of a piece of driftwood washed ashore – a dead branch caught in a storm, only to find a new life at the hands of a skilled carpenter.
He used to like the sea, she remembers, and a soft smile touches her lips. The storm is over now, it's time to move on.