found · in a drawer of the parlour
my darling —
your mother says you do not remember me. this is, as you can imagine, not a tragedy. i am old enough that i remember you for both of us.
you were the one who broke the small silver thimble. i never told her. it is in the box of buttons by the window, if you would like it back.
come at dawn next spring. the orchard is yours. so are the cats.
your aunt —
— e.
from someone you very nearly recall: a face at a window, a voice at a table, a hand that once held yours. the rest is supplied by the body without consulting you.