Though the time together had been short, there were many memories. She had had so much to tell.

But now he grew weary with remembering. The story was long, and he was weak and tired. Recalling her words was his only pleasure, yet his deepest agony. Memory of her face was all he had to live for, yet the one thing he would fain forget.

The recollection was unfinished. But in his condition, even thoughts of happiness were fatiguing.

He lifted the small box once more to his nose and drew in another tired breath from the melancholy fragrance of the dried petals, then set it again on his lap.

He closed his eyes and leaned back in the chair.

He would remember more another time.

In a few moments he was asleep.

Note on Dietrich Bonhoeffer

Note on Dietrich Bonhoeffer