She noticed how her great-aunt’s crystal beads lifted the sober black of the academic gown and went to fetch them. Impulsively, she grabbed her battered wedding band.
Prising it from her finger, she had felt like a survivor.
In the living room, she un-shelved Dickinson.
That would do.
She wrapped everything carefully in tissue paper.
Before she sealed the box, she added the note.
‘From Annabelle. Yes; I lived.’