As with all great things, it happens when she least expects it. She'd placed her books on the floor to dust the bookshelves and is now in the process of putting them back. She likes to think that she can move large piles of books in one go, but finds herself proven wrong when the stack she is carrying wobbles and a few books from the top fall to the floor.

She heaves the books she managed to hang onto on the coffee table and bends down to retrieve the books that fell. One of the more battered novels landed open, face-down: Emma by Jane Austen. The gold inscription has faded and the pages are worn. She can't remember it's from all the times she's thumbed through it, all the times she's fallen asleep with it in her lap. She notices a piece of paper sticking out from between the pages. The paper looks even more loved than the pages of the book. She unfolds it gently and a subconscious part of her recognizes the handwriting.

Dear Belle,

These superstitious towns-folk think it's bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding, but I managed to convince David to give this note to you.

Her breath catches in her throat and she sits down on the couch. Apparently this was the one memory of her marriage she'd forgotten to leave behind.

I guess I just wanted to say I love you once more before you go to sleep. (And that I hope your feet aren't getting chilly.) And I just want to thank you, for being you, for seeing something in me that must be worth hanging on to, for making me want to try. You make me want to be the best version of myself, a version that I'm sorry not many have gotten to see over the years. I guess somewhere along the line you made me see that it's okay to be vulnerable, to open up, and that's it's okay to be scared while doing so. And you showed me that overcoming that fear is worthwhile.

You make me brave, Belle. And you make me strong. And you're my home.

You once asked me how I knew, how I could be so sure that I'd found 'the one'. And sometimes I think I can pinpoint the exact moment I knew, and other times I think this sense of clarity I've found since meeting you crept up on me slowly, and that suddenly I just knew. One day I woke up and it seemed absurd to think I'd ever be happy with anyone else.

It still seems absurd to me.

For there'll never be another like you, Belle. A kindness and grace and warmth like yours can't possibly exist in another human being. And I know it's a little early for making vows, but I promise to cherish and protect what makes you you with all my heart. It's the least I can do. After all, you fell in love with a man like me.

I warned you early on that I'm not a very eloquent man, but I hope some of what I'm trying to say has come across.

And if not, I'll spend the rest of my life trying to make you understand.

Love always,

Rum.

The last few sentences become a blur as she struggles to blink away the tears. Now she sees, more clearly than ever before, the man she let down by forgetting. This is the Rum she must have fallen in love with, the Rum she finds herself falling in love with all over again.

The note doesn't feel like another fragment she'd prefer to dispose of, but rather the words that Rum must have felt unable to say to her now, after the accident, after she left him.

She's overcome by a wave of sadness and she clutches the note to her chest, her shoulders shaking from the effort of stifling her sobs. Eventually she quietens and wipes away the wetness from her cheeks. She draws a shaky breath and folds the note up.

She can't let this go, not when this could turn into something. And it could be beautiful or devastating, either way she has to try. She has to be the brave person Rum thinks she is, that she knows she can be. And she has to see him. She throws on a coat and puts the folded note in the inside pocket, close to her heart.

He's sitting with his feet propped up on the living room table, wondering if it's too early to just go to bed, when there's a loud knock at the door. The knocks are short and quick, frantic sounding.

And behind the door stands the last person he'd expect to see, but the person he's been hoping would show up on his doorstep for the past two months.

Belle's cheeks are flushed and she's heaving for breath. Her eyes are bright and she's clutching a piece of paper in her hand. She looks like she ran all the way here.

"Belle? Are you alright?" he asks immediately.

She nods as she regains her breath. "I'm fine. I just… I just came because I wanted to ask you something."

"Oh. Well, would you like to come inside?" He opens the door wider, gesturing for her to come in, but she just shakes her head.

"No, no, here's fine. I was just wondering." She holds up the piece of paper. "Did you really mean this?"

He leans in and recognizes his handwriting along with words he wrote many years ago, the night before he was to marry the love of his life.

Shit. She must have just found it. No wonder she seems so distraught.

He hates himself for it, but there are a few seconds where he seriously contemplates saying 'no'. Because for those few delusional seconds, he thinks that Belle may be better off without him. But he can't bring himself to lie to her and himself. And he can't bring himself to watch her leave here without knowing that nothing has changed, not when she's looking expectantly at him, like she knows the answer and just wants to hear it from his lips.

"It's one of the few things I still know to be true," he says at last.

The tense air around her leaves her instantly. Her shoulders drop and she releases a breath in a whoosh. Her lips stretch into a breath-taking smile. "I was hoping you'd say that."

And then she quickly closes the distance between them and captures his lips with hers, swallowing his words and stealing his breath. She wraps her arms around his neck tightly and his arms wind around her waist, pulling her closer, always closer. It's a kiss that's meant to devour and heal, and remind them of what they've been missing out on. He laughs against her lips and she pulls back slightly to do the same.

"I was hoping you'd come back to me," he whispers, his lips trailing over her lower lip and chin. She fists his shirt and feels the sting of oncoming tears in her eyes. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," she repeats, a kiss between each apology.

"Don't apologize, love," he says, kissing away her tears gently. "We're together now. That's all that matters."

She just nods before kissing him again, licking into his mouth, making up for lost time.

"Do you want to come in?" he asks when he pulls away for air.

She shakes her head. "Later. First, I want to take you to dinner."

"Dinner?" he repeats slowly. "Now?"

She chuckles. "Don't worry. We can pick this up afterwards," she says with a smirk.

God, how he's missed her. Her tears, the weight of her in his arms, the way she clings like the thought of letting go seems unfathomable.

They walk beneath the glow of the streetlights and the light of distant stars overhead. Their hands are entwined tightly between their bodies. Occasionally he'll swing her around, recreating steps they've danced many times at parties and weddings and in the comfort of their living room. And she'll steal kisses whenever she can, some small and fleeting, and others rawer, more desperate, but equally loving.

They're both stronger than when they walked these streets together before tragedy struck. The wreckage is behind them, and in the shade the world takes on when night approaches, what lies ahead seems only bright and endless.