You've always been friends. You had mock battles when you were arguing about Homer and Aristotle, when you were doing your homework, and when you were choosing which wine to buy for your birthday.

Henry was special to you because his smooth words gave you a long-awaited peace. And your little hands were always stroking his head, which hurt like hell and rested on your fragile knees.

Henry knew that you loved white peonies, which gave you a magical scent at night when the window was open and the cool wind blew in, causing goosebumps.

But Henry's birthday was the starting point.

These were memories, fragments. Lots of glasses of red wine. His hands that slid over your slender waist wrapped in the fabric of an emerald silk dress. His whisper and trembling voice. "I love you." His hands sliding along the line of your spine and shoulder blades.

And so, the morning greeted you with rare rays of sunshine for autumn in Vermont. Henry was asleep, buried in your thin, long neck. His strong arms were holding you close. Your lips are swollen from gentle kisses.

You've remembered everything.