It was Irene’s turn to laugh now, and she did so with ease. He smelled of freshly shaved wood accented with the slight tang of varnish. There was no guess as to where he’d been before he had encountered her in the village. Even after that, she expected him to draw back, but he stayed there, his grip steadfast and Irene couldn’t bring herself to move. Perhaps it was because she knew this would be a rare moment when she looked back at the memory; a butterfly landing on her shoulder, or seeing the first fragile shoots of Lily of the Valley in spring: so fragile, so delicate that any movement would be too great to disturb it.

So she stayed there, only daring to sigh contentedly and close her eyes to allow herself a bit more time; time to stretch it out as long as she could, to embed it in her memory and parcel it up tight. There was no telling if there would ever be a second chance.

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