The wind that blew through the open window was cold and crisp. November wind he thought, she always liked November wind. 
     He remembered her smile, how it stretched across her face wide and broad and bright. The way her checks glowed just the faintest pink and the red tinge to the tips of her ears and nose. He knew every inch of her face, every freckle and every scar, all the flashed of colour inbetween the hazel in her eyes.He knew the twinkle of her laugh and the butterflies it set off in his stomach. He knew the gentle touch of her hands, the softness of her fingertips and the fire they left in trails across his skin. He knew the ice in her voice when she was angry and the way it melted when she was sad. He knew the weight of her leaning against him, chest rising in even breaths as she slept and the softness of her hair against his neck. He knew.
     Had known.
     He didn't know. Not anymore. He didn't know the bloodless pale of her skin, the numb cold of her hands, her lips. Or the limp weight of her dead body. He didnt know, and he was thankful for that.