The note came sliding slowly under the front door as if pushed by a soft breeze: twitching, fluttering, slow. She shuffled over, cane taking most of her weight when she bent to retrieve it; pausing to look through the peephole, but seeing only the hallway’s grimy wallpaper opposite.
Meet me in the park. Wear the read, I like the red.
It was in his hand; they were always in his hand. She had letters for comparison, sent from Basic, from the ship, from the base in England, even a few from the beach itself, none less than sixty-five years old.