Love letters torn to ragged shreds fall like confetti from the high-up window. Behind net curtains a misted shape, a hand.

John picks up ‘love’ and ‘always’ from the mud. Not his writing, is it? He flattens them smooth between his palms and slides them into his breast pocket. The veiled shape is still behind the curtain. The paper snow is thinning.

John’s hands are red and cold and the rain is starting again. He’ll away now, he thinks, while he still can, the words safe, next to his heart.