𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐨𝐩𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐞

Dear Florence

"This reminds me of a place I've been." He'd told the store clerk.

She'd just a gave him a puzzled look a young person would give to a middle aged man as himself. Little did she know that his books were stocked on her shelves. Clair had gone on writing even as he grew older. Now he lived in Wallyford, not to far from his step-sister, where he missed the scent of the Mersey each day.

Clair hadn't married yet. He wasn't sure if he ever would, though a lifetime of solitude didn't seem a to have a negative connotation for him. He enjoyed the quiet and found it an easier environment to write in. Sure, he got breaks, like each time he'd visit his nieces and nephew. But overall, the comfort his small home brought him was wonderful. Clair kept his old writing desk from when he was a child, feeling as if it were a token of good luck. Each day when Clair retreated to bed, he'd find Florence's old letters tacked above his headboard. Sometimes he'd take them down and simply admire her familiar print, allowing glorious memories of the past to resurface. Other times he just press them to his chest, imagining he was young again, holding Florence tight.

Clair missed her dearly. He knew he thought about her much more than she did him. Clair often cried about her. Each morning he'd wake and think about how he could possibly just maybe stumble into her today. Even if they were miles and miles apart, there was some small chance brought with each new day. Although he'd never have the courage to visit her himself, this kept him waking with a smile.

He thought back on his time with her. When he'd brought her out to the swimming hole and she leaped in fully clothed alongside him. The way he'd kissed her in the small falling apart book store in London. He missed he with everything he was. It pained him to wonder if she missed him just as much. Clair smiled now at the memory of her shoving him behind her wardrobe as the maid came in and helped her dress. He even laughed as he remembered their sulky waltz at the cotillion. Florence and Clair's reunion will be long awaited, but he knew it'd happen. One day they'd meet again, and it would be as if they never left each other.

Clair hadn't written her in nearly six years. With a rueful smile, he rose and shuffled over to his writing desk. Putting his old fountain pen to paper, he began writing. Over the years he'd written to her countless times, but he'd kept them for himself. This one he promised himself he'd send to her.

"Dear Florence..." His loopy lettering began.