Among his papers, after, we found a photograph of a woman none of us recognised. She was young — younger than we ever knew him. She stood in a garden somewhere warm, shading her eyes against a light that had long since moved on. On the back, in his handwriting: just a first name, and a year.
We passed it around the table. Nobody said anything for a while. Then my sister put it with the things to keep. We have not spoken of it since.