She wasn't much of a reader but she'd read the books he gave her... As if trying to find a clue to his psyche. Or to simply feel closer to him. To touch the pages he'd once touched before.
She'd read the words with a warm feeling at her stomach and memories of their shared meals would surface, lingering the train car's air.
At the last page, she'd close it knowing it was over, again. And through the bustle she'd leave the book under the lonely newspaper next to her.
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