The pages were worn soft at the edges from the countless times he’d read through them. One corner of the cover was dented and the ink inside had several smears as if he had rested his fingers over a certain passage. It was careworn and precious.

There had been little time to clean out his flat between her running of the shop and her long hours as an ARP Warden at night. The bombs fell with less frequency now, but her efforts were still needed. She’d been too exhausted to do much with Mr. Evans’s effects, let alone prepare the small residence to move in to. Truthfully, she had been glad for the option to stay on with Mrs. Weatherford for a spell longer. Grace didn’t feel strong enough to be on her own just yet.

There had been so much death.

Too much.

Her mother. Colin. Mr. Evans. Mr. Pritchard. All the bombing victims she’d seen in those harrowing months.

There had been so much loss in so little time. It built up inside her like a tidal wave battering at a weakening dam. The more it swelled, the harder Grace worked.

Mrs. Weatherford didn’t like what she saw and commented often on Grace’s worn-down appearance, always shoving food toward her to get her to eat more. But Grace didn’t have an appetite for anything. Not Woolton pie, which they’d taken to calling Le Woolton Pie ever since her date at the Ritz, not even poultry when it could be found.

How could she with so much destruction and loss around her? Every day homes were destroyed and people were killed. The nights were blanketed in darkness, their food was bland and marbled with gristle. Through it all was the ever-present wail of the air raid siren, reminding them that this state of things would continue on and on and on with no end.

The war had been interminable and felt as though it would last forever.

After announcing Mr. Evans’s death, Grace had been slow in her replies to Viv and George. The only words that she could summon were far too heavy for war letters. It wouldn’t do to weigh them down with her burdens.

She went through the motions of reorganizing the display in the front window, letting her focus drift to the aesthetic where she didn’t have to consider the numbness inside her.

A familiar face appeared at her side.

Mrs. Nesbitt’s gaze skimmed the neatly arranged books amid paper flowers made from painted newspapers. They were meant to represent the incoming spring despite the dull, drizzling weather.

“Are you putting up another display?” She sniffed. “Is that not your second this week?”

Grace lifted a shoulder. “It may bring in more customers, which will benefit us all.”