watched the linen curtains billow and fall and matched her breathing to the pulse of fabric. The sound of trams outside, the birds, a burst of laughter from below, and her thoughts were of people no longer living, and it wasn’t an act of nostalgia but one of love of reminiscence, of the people who had made her her. The privilege and the freedom they had brought her. Beauty and gratitude entwined forever in a closely woven fabric of sympathetic names:
the good and the bad, the red rose and the briar, in a true lovers knot
