The woman in black walked through the Abbey. She stayed with the tour group, surrounded by magnificence. Stained glass windows, gilt statues, an impossibly high ceiling—majesty—she should have been impressed. Instead, she was preoccupied, a woman with a mission.

England was damp. She felt the chill deep in her bones. Granted, the bones weren’t as young as they used to be. She pulled her shawl around her shoulders. He had kept her young. He had kept her alive, long after she had any expectation of living. The years slipped by without either of them realizing it. Full years. Fulfilled years.

So many times they had promised each other this trip to England. Every time, something had gotten in the way. Time had seemed such a luxury. Next year, they said.

The woman in black, wide-brimmed hat covering her once-blonde hair, clad with sensible shoes, sensible skirt, turned towards the south transept. She left the tour then, evading them as she walked towards Poets' Corner. So many monuments to greatness.

She took the little silver box out of her handbag and opened the lid. Tipping it, she scattered the dust within over the memorial to Percy Bysshe Shelley. The unconventional romantic hero. The warrior's companion. The poet.

She touched her finger to her lip, and placed the kiss in the dust. "You’re home," she said.

The End