mjblue
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The first thing she forgot was the colour of a meadow on a midsummer day.
The second was the sound of a door sliding open, and a voice that still hadn’t lost the shake of anger.
“Excuse us,” said the voice. “But do you mind if we sit here?”
Mary didn’t mind.
“You see,” the voice explained. “We had seats already. Perfectly nice seats, in fact—but then we were disturbed. Did you know this place accepts mentally deficient toe-rags?”
Mary had not.
“Me either,” said the voice. It was a bit steadier now. “Well, you seem nice, at any rate—what’s your name?”
The voice had a name, too. But Mary couldn’t forget what it was.
•••
A one-shot capturing Mary's most-cherished memories as they slip through her fingers at the end of the war.