She used to read the obituaries in the newspaper every early morning, her eyes traveling over the names that soon would be forgotten by those who did not know them by heart. When he asked her why she only looked at him as if he was the odd one.
“ If I don’t, who will?”
What he did not notice then was the nervous dance of her fingers underneath the table cloth and what those names symbolized for her. That one day her own would stand against black and white and no one would know what secrets it had once held. No one would be there to read hers. So she gave every name a final thought, a last wove: that she would always remember. That someone cared.