His face lights up, a mixture of pride and curiosity softening his features. The afternoon light streaming through the dusty windows catches the silver in his hair, making him look almost ethereal.

"You did, did you?"

Wordlessly, I pull the pages from my bag, my hands trembling slightly as I hand them over. He takes them with the kind of reverence usually reserved for sacred things, and my heart catches in my throat.

As he reads, the room falls impossibly quiet, save for the soft rustle of paper and the distant ticking of the ancient wall clock. I watch his expression shift—eyes crinkling with warmth, lips curving into a bittersweet smile. When he finally looks up, there's a sheen of tears in his eyes that makes my own vision blur.

"Your words, young lady," he begins, his voice thick with emotion, "they're beautiful. You captured her spirit—us—perfectly. It's like you saw her the way I did."

"You really like it?" I ask, my voice small, barely above a whisper. The pressure of telling someone else's love story—especially one as precious as theirs—has been sitting heavy on my shoulders for weeks.

"No, Lenora," he says, shaking his head with a soft laugh that seems to hold decades of memories. "I absolutely love it. You've done us proud."

I exhale, relief washing over me like a warm tide.

"I was so afraid I wouldn't do you or Gracie justice."

He leans forward, resting a hand over mine. His skin is paper-thin but warm, marked with the stories of a life well-lived.

"Justice? Nora, what you've done here is a tribute. A love letter to a life well-lived. You've honored her memory more than I ever could've hoped for."

His praise makes me smile, though I can feel heat rising to my cheeks. I toy with the corner of my sleeve, gathering courage for the question that's been burning in my mind.

"Alfie, how did you know it was supposed to be Gracie?"

He chuckles softly, the kind of laugh that carries cherished memories in its echo. "The moment I saw her through that window, sitting and reading Jane Austen. She had this... quiet brilliance about her, like she belonged to the whole world but chose to sit in mine." His eyes take on a faraway look, seeing something—someone—from long ago.

"There was this sense of rightness, you see. For some, first love is just a spark, a preview of loves to come. But for others, it's the only love—the greatest love. That's why I think heartbreak exists. To remind us of the worth of what we had, even if it was just for a short while."

"Did you ever doubt it?" I ask, leaning forward, hungry for insight into a love so sure, so steadfast.