She hadn’t heard the song in a very long time.
Nor the memories.
They had been wrapped. Sound proof-ed-ly. He had helped her, while they had sat on her empty floor, lit by a perpetually coloured dusk light through her only circular window (or maybe it was the wine they shared. Its name was her favourite poem about life at the time, something that would make her cringe now the wrapping was peeling back…
That was it.
She did cringe – what a horrible poet she must have been!)
And now, astonished at this unwrapped dust falling through her fingers, she blew it away gently, and bought a bottle of wine.
And replayed the song.