By Aouda Fogg
The dust motes drifted in and out of streams of winter sunlight pouring through the attic window. No sound broke the stillness surrouding the two men sitting side by side in the midst of stacked boxes and assorted Christmas decorations.
They were holding hands, but neither moved for long moments. At last, the smaller man began moving his thumb just a bit, a gentle stroking along the back of the hand he held. He didn't say anything.
The larger man took a deep breath and ran his own thumb over the cover of the small book in his unoccupied hand.
"She loved me."