The photograph slides out of the envelope. It is peculiar to see Francis’s face again in this place, with Edie sitting across the table from him. It is a version of Francis’s face that he has tried to forget, a version he never wanted Edie to see. “He’s taking it of himself.”

“He was here, wasn’t he?”

Harry stands up with the photograph and circles until the background slots into place. “Yes.” He hears her intake of breath.

“He looks older, don’t you think? Much older?”

He remembers the rain falling down Francis’s cheeks. He remembers the whites of his brother’s eyes turning toward him as they lay in a shell hole. He remembers the noise of the barrage, how it throbbed through his own body, and how Francis’s lips had trembled. “He does.”

“But I saw him in September 1917, Harry. He was reported missing at the end of October. Yes, he didn’t exactly look his best when he came home in September, I was shocked when I first saw him, but the face in that photograph isn’t one month older than the man who sat in my house that week. This man is years older.”

He looks at her. How can he tell her? “It must have been taken towards the end.”

“I can hardly believe that,” she says. The liquid in her glass shakes as she puts it to her mouth. “I’m grateful to whoever sent it. I can’t say that I like it, that it didn’t shock me, I’m not exactly going to put it in a photograph frame, but I’d rather have it than not. I just wish I knew who it was that sent it and why now.” She takes the envelope back and returns it to her bag. “Don’t you? Don’t you wonder what it means?”

“Things just surface.” He considers what is making her hands shake, what has surfaced for her with this photograph, why she is looking at him like that. “I saw it with Rachel. There are rooms full of personal effects. You could fill cathedrals with all of this stuff. It’ll be decades before it all shakes down and makes its way back to its rightful owners.”

“Your Rachel woman sent me a postcard of a cathedral.”

“I told her that you like a nice topographical feature.”

“Only it was all toppled down. You’ve had some odd post. The postman probably wonders what’s going on. A man somewhere in France is sending you postcards of war memorials.”

“That would be Gabriel.”

“And then another woman sent you a saucy postcard. There was a poem written on the back in French. I looked some of the words up. It was quite vulgar.”

Harry laughs. He is glad to finally see a smile twitch across her face. “It’s all right. Cassie was a nurse.”