217 Babel Street | Apartment 7
Margaret slotted another piece into the puzzle. Even with her hands shaking so, she still had a sure enough touch. It reminded her of when she used to work as a sewing machinist. They were paid per item, not by the hour, and most of the women sped through the orders. But not Margaret, no. She had always prided herself on her handiwork.
Writing the letter last night had stirred such memories. Memories and regrets. Words said in haste; and worse than that, things left unsaid.
Her hands worked on, bringing together the simple cube. It hardly seemed like anything at all, and yet the colours did sparkle so, golden, golden like... Like what?
Golden sunbeams that day, filtering through Harry's hair. Oh, lovely thick blond locks he had, back then. We were in the fields to the north of Merthyr, where the two rivers joined to form the Taff. The waters murmured and whispered and spoke to each other, as he lowered his face down towards mine and our lips... the first time...
Oh. What was she thinking? This would never do. Another piece slipped into place. Only three to go now, but these would be the most difficult. The box trembled. Music was playing, voices...
Sunlight. Sparkle. Must wash those windows. Get Harry to... what was it... that melody...blue dress, lovely blue dress... dancing at the ball, his hand on my side, gently squeezing... so tender... must check the... why did I never tell him about...
Margaret's fingers clenched. The room stirred with darkness, with light.