Dear Helen,
The last time I wrote to you was ten years ago. How has it been, mon cher? I'm still coping with the consecutive deaths of my parents. My father died six years ago when he'd had his heart attack. My mother died three years later because of depression.
It's been twenty, long years. I could still recall that night on the fourth of May, 1940 when I first saw you on that bench, cold and dripping wet from the heavy rain on a school night. We became good friends for six years until my family moved to London. There were many times I attempted to pay you a visit but I couldn't. Fear always vetoed me from seeing you, afraid that you have found someone else. I'm dying to hear from you, mon amour.
Love,
Jean
YOU ARE READING
It Started in Paris
Romanzi rosa / ChickLitLauren goes to Paris for a business trip. She ignores the countless love letters that arrives at her door in her apartment in Paris. Her curiosity clicks her into opening the letters. Someone named Jean Hughe is the writer of the letters for...
