It was a cold day on May 12th, 1915 as Sadie Carson sat down in the well loved, but freshly padded rocking chair that her grandfather had carved over sixty years ago. The young woman had just finished her chores for the evening and was waiting on her husband. Five minutes later Sadie’s husband, Paul came into the light blue sitting room from plowing the fields and kissed her forehead before noticing the letter on his wife’s lap, yet to be opened. Paul knew all too well who had written it even without the faint scent of rose perfume that wafted through the air, the person who had taken the time to write the letter always used it before mailing anything to his wife, for that was her favorite scent. He patted his wife’s hand lovingly as he took the hot cup of coffee from his usual mug on the table beside Sadie, she always made coffee right before Paul came inside each evening. Sadie’s curly, long, light red hair started to fall from its neat braided bun
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