Ruth opened the front door. The paper fell to the ground. It was an old habit, but it served her well.
She took off her coat and scarf, picked up the post and walked into the kitchen. She filled the kettle and began tearing at the envelopes in her hands.
Electricity bill. Tossed to one side.
Private school, enrol your children. Torn up.
Unmarked and unposted, no doubt a local circular. It was a card.
I forgot to say that you're the reason I get up in a morning. And if you married me, you'd be the reason I'd want to go to bed.
She knew the writing, even though it was unsigned. She felt herself blush and damned herself for it. To say she was surprised was an understatement. To say that a part of her was not thrilled, would have been a lie.
But she thought of his gloves. Of death. Of the things he had done and would continue to do. And the thrill stalled.
She sighed.
She put the card on the mantelpiece and turned back to the kitchen. And then she stopped.
There was a single red rose resting in a crystal glass vase on the coffee table.
It wasn't her rose and it wasn't her vase.
There was no note.
But she knew.
It's a start, she thought.
Harry stood outside her house. He couldn't see in but he hoped she was pleased.
It was a start, he thought.
