Three days after she died, he went to the bookshelf in the living room and picked out a book. A red and gold hardcover he had never seen before, covering her much loved black and white pages. It could have been any book, it was just any book, but her hands had touched it, her eyes had read it. Her lips had smiled with satisfaction after she had bought it, carried the paper bag home, and opened it slowly to savour the pleasure, to press it against her face and smell the pages, to look at the front cover and then read the back cover, before opening it at page one.