Lucy and I know, however, how a simple gesture at this time of year can lift a damaged spirit, especially after all our little town has lost. I hope our angels, meagre as they are, will spread at least a bit of cheer this year.

I am trying to ignore Mother as best I can. She does not like me going about in bare feet and insists I wear shoes in her presence. It feels strange now, but I oblige her for the sake of peace. Thankfully she and Father will not be here long, as Mother has plans to spend time in Melbourne with some of her new university friends over the summer. Father speaks at night of his students and lectures. He seems very happy. I shall miss his quiet company once they are gone.

It is yet another holiday without you. Will these ever get easier? The birthdays, anniversaries, Christmases? So many people have told me time heals as though that is supposed to be a comfort. They never say how much time, though, do they? And what if healing means forgetting you? I do not ever intend to stop thinking about you.

There have been whispers of bringing back the Spring Dance, now that we are no longer at war. It will of course be one more celebration to remind me you are not here. I remember so clearly that night at the Spring Dance where we met. The horror on Mother’s face as we danced, how devastatingly handsome you were, how nervous I was. But, it may not ever happen. Not if Joan Wetherby has any hand in the matter. She is vehemently against the idea of bringing the dance back. Says dances are folly and nothing but trouble. Did she not enjoy them when you were at school together? I wish I had known you then.

I shall not linger long, my love. Lucy entrusted me to finish two angels on my own tonight and their little wings are beside me waiting to be attached. They are quite endearing, these angels, I must admit. Mrs Li has been very generous and gifted us some beautiful paper to use on the wings. They are covered in a red and gold pattern that shimmers under candlelight. Perhaps these wings will help a lost soul’s dreams take flight, or give hope to one who has lost theirs. Is that not what Christmas is about? Hope.

I miss you, my dearest, so very much.

Forever yours,

Ivy

With each letter Nicole fell in love a little more with Ivy, the same way she’d fall for characters in a book. Only this wasn’t a novel. It was real life. Ivy’s real life. A life Nicole wished she could be part of, instead of having to live vicariously through decades-old words.

If only she could step through the parchment and back in time and leave her own world behind. No Mark, no pain, no heartache.