She opens the bottom left-hand drawer of her desk, the place where she keeps the family memorabilia. Birthday cards from the children, paintings they did in class long ago, letters from Henry. She fumbles all the way to the bottom, and there she finds a sealed envelope she should have thrown away years ago, but has not. She take it out and places it on the desk in front of her.

The envelope is addressed: 'For N.C., one day.'

She remembers writing it, but not the words she wrote. Ridiculous to have kept it for so long.


The flap of the envelope yields easily without tearing the paper. Inside is a thin red ribbon, a strip of four photo-booth pictures, a short note in Nick's handwriting, and her letter.

She gazes at the pictures. In the top one he's smiling at the camera, at her. In the bottom one he has his eyes closed.

She starts to read the letter. As she reads, tears come to her eyes.