They had arrived at Thames House a few weeks after the funeral, when he was still raw and fragile. There had been quite a debate over what to do with them at security, it usually not a common occurrence for several boxes, addressed to the Anti-terrorism Section Head, to be left on the doorstep at MI-5. After it had been determined that they didn't contain a bomb or anything else sinister, they had been unceremoniously left in said Section Head's office.

Dimitri had helped him load them in the Land Rover, not asking any questions, for which Harry had been glad. That evening, he placed them in his sitting room, and until that night months later, those boxes remained untouched, a rime of dust forming on the lids. From the corner of the room they alternately called to him, mocked him, and frightened him.

He had long-ago memorized the note that had accompanied the boxes:

Harry,

I hope these find you safely – I have no way to contact you and this was the only way I could think of. I took a few things – some jewelry and clothes I had given her, and a few things of her father's. She would want you to have everything else. The furniture and the rest are in storage for you to collect whenever. I hope you find some peace. God bless you.

-Elizabeth.

He had intended to tear through the contents quickly, like ripping off a bandage, but found himself lingering over every item. Old school medals, her faded university scarf. Her handwritten research notes had given way to faint dot-matix printouts until finally just a CD with "Dissertation" written in marker on it. There were lots of books, of course, and the copy of Ovid he had given her as a gift was at the top of the pile. A slip of paper in Elizabeth's handwriting had told him that that particular volume had been on Ruth's nightstand. It was a curious feeling to see his own handwriting there on the flyleaf, wishing her a happy birthday, and he found himself wondering if she, in looking at those simple lines, ever knew what he had really meant to say instead. He kept the bookmarks just as she had left them.

He spent almost the entirety of a David Bowie album on her ipodlooking through albums of photographs of people he didn't know. She must have been the photographer, but he was rewarded with a few snapshots here and there of her, impossibly young, perhaps a bit naïve, but so beautiful and full of life. There were countless theatre programs, a lot more jazz CDs than he would have guessed, some random letters from friends. Not surprisingly, her bills and accounts were scrupulously organized and annotated.

The clothes were particularly difficult; he recognized many of the outfits, but there were more that he had wished he could have seen her in. He tried to imagine the situation where she would've worn that summer dress, or those dark jeans. So much time wasted. She would have done the gardening in Suffolk in those tatty trainers. There was a well-worn jumper that smelled of her, and he clung to it like a life ring.

Towards the bottom of the second to the last box, he found an unlabelled cassette tape. Curiosity got the better of him, and he fumbled with the rarely used controls on his stereo. Then his heart stopped. It took a few minutes for him to even focus on the words that she said; it was enough that her sweet, soft voice was with him again. As he sat there on his sofa listening to her give some lecture about Offa, the tears flowed freely. He had listened to that cassette three times through before finally succumbing to exhaustion, as the morning sun started to burn off the morning fog.

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Author's note: More soon! Please leave a review!