An aroma of musty perfume washed over her as she lifted the lid. Mouldy, rotten petals clung to the base of the gift box, reluctant to leave their grave. The note inside was in no better state. She could faintly decipher “all my love, Will”, written in his familiar hand.
All that remained of him was this note. She wept into the box, clutching it to her heart, longing for his return from the war.
The front door opened and closed behind her.
“Sorry,” he said, curling his lip at the pungent aroma, “it must have gotten delayed in the post.”