Epilogue

Shy strains of morning, I mistake the milk swirling into my coffee for the blood that rushes your veins and I think for a moment that I might miss you, I just might. And yet dawn is hours away; three and a half to be precise.

Watching the patterns the tears made as they ran down her cheeks, the little tin soldier thought about how, even in her sadness, the little doll was so pretty.