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                The village postman was already making his rounds when the city began to emerge from the darkness in the cold grey of early dawn. The city was quiet, in contrast to what it was just a few years ago. London which was once a busy city had been reduced to almost a dead one. People did not venture outside their houses. Empty and closed shops littered the streets. It was the year 1942 and England was fighting for her life against virtually the whole of Europe.

                                The village postman stopped outside the house of the Taylors. He was holding a buff-coloured telegram envelope in his hand. Helen Taylor came out and took it, her hands shaking. The village postman gave a curt nod, tapped the brim of his hat, and went on with his duties.

                Inside, Helen sat on her sofa and she slowly slit the envelope. Tears welled in her eyes as she read the message. “We regret to inform you the death of your husband…” As soon as she read these few lines the envelope dropped from her hands. Tears coursed down her cheeks. She could not- she would not, believe it had happened. It was unbearable.

                They say that you love the thing most only when it is gone. This could not have been truer for Helen. She just wanted him back. They did not have any children. Who was going to take care of her now? She knew that she was able to care for herself, being financially independent, but she always had company- her husband. Not anymore.

                Helen knew she had to control her emotions and straightened up the house before all the mourners arrived. Although Helen was still in a state of grief, she knew that this had to be done. Turning to thoughtless tasks like housework was necessary in order to maintain control of the situation. The fireplace was swept out until there was no trace that it had ever been lit. For Helen, it was important as she knew she had to maintain her composure when she was receiving visitors.

                They came. Her family, relatives, friends. They all came to console her and pay respects to the man that had so bravely gave his life for the country. The house was neat and tidy to receive the visitors but no matter how much housekeeping had been done, it could not hide the fact that her loved one was lost.

                The heart, broken to pieces by grief, must be swept up and hidden from sight. Helen knew this. She knew life had to go on. But the love, like a memory, must be stored in a safe place. Helen vowed she would never fall in love again, not if it would bring this much loss, and this loss brings a great amount of suffering. She swore that she would only live with the memory of her husband until her grave, when they would be reunited again. Helen was sure about it.