A frail old man sat alone on a bench, staring down at the parcels in his hands. Passers by never noticed him as he sat there day after day, watching young lovers stroll by. On this particular day he was watching a seemingly shy set lounging on a bench nearby. The clothes they wore seemed misplaced, as if from the old man’s own youth and the girl had a familiarity about her.
He watched as the vibrant man played with the soft curls of mahogany with his fingers. The man thought of how he used to do the same thing with his love; remembering such things was both painful and enjoyable for him. The last time he had seen her vivacious face alight, as the girls was now, was the day he had killed her.
Looking down once more to the parcels in his hands he thought of his love from so long ago. The letters she had lovingly wrote to him were now crinkled and warn, taking on a more clothe like feel. His greatest fear these days was to lose them forever, much like he had lost her. When he had been released from Azkaban he had been surprised that they had been left untouched for so many years and had clung to them ever since. He imagined he could still smell her scent on them, as though she had written them yesterday, but alas it was only his imagination.
His mind wandered back to the young couple after sometime, and looking up at the bench they had occupied he found it empty. Had they ever really been there, or was it just his mind playing tricks on him?