Little things; a scrap of paper, a beat up old pen, a small faded notebook, a tarnished and worn ring, and a creased folded up photograph. All tucked up together in an inner jacket pocket.

The notebook and the pen were like an old couple, useless without each other. The notebook book was full of ideas and poems. Dreams and memories covered page after page in small neat handwriting. It was a little morbid, but sweet how that battered pen let itself bleed to give those pages life.

The ring encircled the pen, together and yet apart. The gold was dull and cold, but three glittering amber gems twinkled in the midst of decay. It was large and heavy, but a comforting weight. A reminder of things past, but a hope for the future.

The paper and the photograph also went together. The paper read, “Sois en sécurité, ma rose chérie.” A whisper of love that clung to the fibers. The picture showed a small girl, and a woman that must have been her mother. They shared the same warm brown hair and eyes, smiling at the camera. A memory trapped in ink.

All together they told a story. A story of loss, and love, and strength. A story where the bittersweet is the most beautiful, and ‘perfect’ is a myth. A story that starts with the little girl in the photo, who finds herself alone, with only memories to cling to.