“Do you think these are the last sounds Colin heard?” Mrs. Weatherford mused, her stare locked on the flickering candle flame. “Do you think he was frightened?”

“I think he was brave,” Grace replied with confidence. “Knowing Colin, he was probably trying to save someone.”

“I’m sure.” Mrs. Weatherford nodded, and tears shone bright in her eyes. “It was me who killed him, as surely as it was the Germans.” She sniffled. “I let him grow up to be too kind, too sweet. I never should have allowed him to be so...so sensitive.”

Grace sat up from where she leaned against the rippled metal wall. “You would have been forcing him to be someone he wasn’t.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Weatherford snapped. “But he would be alive.”

“Not as the man we loved so dearly.”

“I know.” Mrs. Weatherford put her face into her hands and began to softly weep. “I know.”

“You did right by him, Mrs. Weatherford.” Grace shifted onto the other bench and gently rubbed the older woman’s shoulders as she grieved the loss of a man far too good to die so young. “You let him be who he wanted to be, and you supported and loved him. He would not have had it any other way.”

Grace paused, aware that her next words would sting, and that they needed to be said regardless. “And you know he would hate to see you like this.”

Mrs. Weatherford ducked her head.

They didn’t speak again for the rest of the night. Eventually Grace returned to her seat on the opposite side of the shelter. Somehow she managed to fall asleep despite the distant bombing, with her head cocked at an awkward angle and her bum tingling with numbness where it pressed to the hard surface. The all clear woke her early the following morning, nearly startling her from the narrow bench.

“They didn’t get close.” Mrs. Weatherford rose stiffly from where she sat with a hand pressed to her lower back. “I’ll go put the kettle on.”

She gathered up the candleholder with its pool of melted wax, the wick blackened and spent, and limped from the shelter. Grace went inside as well, but didn’t bother with tea. Her body ached from the uncomfortable position, and her eyes were heavy with exhaustion. Never had she been so grateful to have a day off from the bookshop.

She woke later to a familiar tar-like scent. The carbolic smell grew stronger when she opened the door to her bedroom and made her way down a gleaming stairwell. Mrs. Weatherford greeted her at the bottom with a sad, apologetic smile. She wore a dark housedress and no jewelry or lipstick, but her gray hair had been pulled back in a neat roll.