Some dust flew off the wooden crate that was standing in the corner of Mary's chamber. She hadn't touched it in years. At times she had even considered disposing of it, but something had always stopped her, a sense of nostalgia or a deep-rooted respect for the past and its teachings. The pushed open the lid and moved her finger over a broken music box, some embroidered handkerchiefs and finally a pocketbook. She took out the book and weighed it in her hands. So light and soft it felt. Slowly she flipped it open. The dried cornflower was still there between the yellowed pages. Immediately, a tear ran down her cheek. Mike had given her that flower. He must have been about eight or nine. There were writings somewhere too.
She looked in the back of the book. To anyone else it would have been chicken scratch, but Mary knew the words by heart:
"To my guardian angel, Mary. Love, Mike".
"Mary," a delicate voice called out, "Are you sad?"
Mary gently ran her fingers over the words, then closed the book.
"Just a little," she admitted.
Denise came closer. She hesitated for a moment before wrapping her arms around Mary's shoulders.
"I've decided to stay," she said. "I know my aunt is blood and all, but you brought me up as your own daughter. You are my family."
A sob flew from Mary's lips.
"Oh, my dear," she whispered, "You have no idea how much that means to me."