There is a bench in a park where the fog settles like a curious guest, offering a gentle kiss before it lifts. Samuel used to rest his head in Lily-Rose’s lap while she read a poem, or perhaps an extract from a favorite novel. But Samuel is gone now, and though Lily-Rose still visits the bench, she has begun to lose her words: words both read and spoken, words written, words shared, words thought, words loved or hated, words that sang her to sleep or kept her awake. Words hide from her now.
But not all memory is lost. She does recall that her parents were gardeners, and when she was born, to avoid conflict, mother and father called her Lily and Rose respectively.
If this seems like the saddest of sad tales, you should know that Lily-Rose has a secret.
Lily-Rose has Millicent, and Millicent has Lily-Rose.