He taps his fingers against the wooden table, clutching the photo in his other hand.

It is old, fraying from the amount of times it has been held and turned over and over between heavy fingertips.

In this picture, she smiles. Her curls tumble effortlessly down her shoulders and she is happy to be alive.

He grips the image tighter and feels a tear roll down his cheek as he stares at the rotting roses on the table, still swaddled in their delicate paper wrapping, that accompanied the note.

Her note.

He loves her. He knows this for certain now, as he holds the picture to his lips, gently whispering a trembling goodbye.

But that no longer mattered. She would never know.