Marie didn't notice when he moved closed, didn't realize how close he was until his hand came into her field of vision and she heard that soft voice that did nothing to deter the way she jerked back, her hands automatically going to her skirt where she could hide them in the folds of fabric. She took a deep, shaking breath before getting hold of herself and nodding.
"You're right, of course," she said with a nod, trying to brush aside her odd reaction as if it were nothing strange at all. "If you wouldn't mind, I'd greatly appreciate..." But she let the words trail off, because asking him for even more help than he'd already provided? No, she couldn't do that.
Biting her lower lip, she reached forward again to carefully pick up the damp pieces of paper, their folded lines so worn that some of them looked close to falling apart, despite not being more than a few years old. "They're letters from my husband," she explained quietly, in case he should look and catch some of the writing. "From during the war." From when he'd been between battles, and when he'd been dying in the hospital and she'd been unable to get to him. He'd written pages and pages of all the things he'd meant to say, the things he'd wanted her to know and carry with her in the years ahead. She'd read them so many times that she practically had them memorized, but they were one of the few connections she still had to the man she'd loved with her whole heart. She couldn't let anything happen to them.
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"You're right, of course," she said with a nod, trying to brush aside her odd reaction as if it were nothing strange at all. "If you wouldn't mind, I'd greatly appreciate..." But she let the words trail off, because asking him for even more help than he'd already provided? No, she couldn't do that.
Biting her lower lip, she reached forward again to carefully pick up the damp pieces of paper, their folded lines so worn that some of them looked close to falling apart, despite not being more than a few years old. "They're letters from my husband," she explained quietly, in case he should look and catch some of the writing. "From during the war." From when he'd been between battles, and when he'd been dying in the hospital and she'd been unable to get to him. He'd written pages and pages of all the things he'd meant to say, the things he'd wanted her to know and carry with her in the years ahead. She'd read them so many times that she practically had them memorized, but they were one of the few connections she still had to the man she'd loved with her whole heart. She couldn't let anything happen to them.