bent down to pick up the bouquet of violets and the envelope. I inhaled deeply, the sweet scent of the blooms wrapping around me, both painful and a comfort. I slipped a finger under the seal and carefully ripped it open, wondering what memory I’d get this year. There was never a note, only a bouquet of violets and a copy of an old photo of my sister. I had no idea who brought them, but I’d gotten them every year since Violet’s death, always sometime the week of her birthday. For a couple of years, I’d thought it was Ford, his way of comforting me from afar, but I’d given up on that silly hope
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