"Her special nickname..." The way Faust repeated the words was distant, as if he were struggling to regain memories of some long-forgotten time. Or perhaps struggling not to remember.

Suddenly, he buried his face in his hands, slumping a little where he stood. He still remembered tiny details about her, little snippets of memories that came less and less frequently to the fore as the years passed. But when they did surface, they were more than he could stand. Her favorite flower, the way she sipped at her tea. The dress she'd bought and never worn.

"I miss her so."