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“Bella, pass Papa Nick that box, would you?”
She obliges readily. Unlike some of the older grandkids, his youngest is still teeming with notions of romance and fancy about these things. She loves that box, no matter how many times Nick tells the story. She rips the lid off as soon as she’s close enough to snuggle into the armchair with him and tugs an aged photograph free.
“Tell me about this one, Papa?” she begs, even though she must have heard this story a hundred times before.
Nick strokes the familiar black curls on the faded paper and sighs.
