She knelt beside the table she’d placed on the pavement, cradling her baby. “Please, I don’t want your money, just a moment of your time.

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 9 minViews 3

He knelt by the low table he had set up on the cobbled pavement, cradling his infant. Please, I dont want your money, just a moment of your time, he whispered. The gentleman in a crisp suit looked up from his glass of claret, unaware that those words would shatter everything he thought he understood.

The city was alive that night: traffic horns, laughter spilling from the pubs, waiters hurrying beneath the flickering street lamps. Yet at table six on the terrace of an elegant London gastropub, David Langston swirled his wine, lost in his own quiet.

A plate of lobster risotto sat untouched before him. The scent of saffron and truffle barely reached his nose. His thoughts drifted elsewhereto stock tickers, empty speeches in boardrooms, another token award handed out at a faceless charity dinner.

Then he heard a soft, fragile voice, barely a whisper.

Please, sir I dont want your money. Just a moment.

He turned. And there she was.

On her knees.

Her bare knees pressed into the cold stone of the pavement; a thin beige dress, duststained, its hem frayed. Her hair was tied in a careless bun, stray strands falling onto her temples. Wrapped in an old brown blanket, she held a newborn in her arms.

David blinked, unsure what to say.

The woman settled the baby gently and spoke again. You seemed someone who knows how to listen.

A waiter hurried over. Sir, shall I summon security?

No, David replied curtly, his eyes never leaving her. Let her speak.

The waiter hesitated, then backed away.

David gestured to the empty chair opposite him. Please, have a seat.

She shook her head. No. I dont wish to disturb your table. I just I saw you here, alone, and I spent the whole day looking for anyone who still had a heart.

Her words cut deeper than he expected.

David leaned forward. What do you want?

She inhaled deeply. My name is Evelyn. This is Rosamund. Shes seven weeks old. I lost my job when I could no longer hide my pregnancy. Then my flat. The shelters are full. Today I knocked on three churcheseach one shut.

She lowered her gaze. Im not asking for money. Ive had enough bills and cold stares to know the difference.

David watched hernot her ragged clothes, not her posture, but her eyes. There was no desperation, only fatigue and a quiet courage.

Why me? he asked.

Evelyn met his stare. Because you were the only one tonight not glued to a phone or laughing over a second course. You simply sat in silence, as if you understood what it feels like to be alone.

David glanced at his plate. She was right.

Ten minutes later Evelyn sat opposite him, Rosamund still sleeping against her chest. David ordered another glass of water and a fresh roll with butter.

They lingered in silence.

At last David asked, Wheres Rosamunds father?

Evelyns tone did not waver. He walked out as soon as I told him.

And your family?

My mother died five years ago. My father I havent spoken to him since I was fifteen.

David nodded. I know that feeling.

Evelyn seemed surprised. Really?

I grew up in a house flush with money but barren of love, he said. You learn quickly that wealth cannot buy affection.

After a long pause she whispered, Sometimes I feel invisible. If Rosamund werent here, I think Id disappear as well.

David slipped his hand into his coat and produced a business card. I run a foundation. Supposedly its for youth development, but honestly, most of the time its just a tax writeoff.

He placed the card on the table. Tomorrow morning, go there. Say I sent you. Youll have a roof, food, nappies, and if you wish, a counsellor. Perhaps even a job.

Evelyn stared at the card as if it were gold. Why? she whispered. Why help me?

Davids gaze grew solemn. Because Im tired of turning a blind eye to those who still believe in kindness.

Tears welled in Evelyns eyes; she blinked them away. Thank you, she whispered. You have no idea what this means.

He gave her a faint smile. I think I do.

The night deepened. Evelyn rose, thanked him once more, and slipped back into the citys darkness, baby safe in her arms and her shoulders a shade straighter.

David lingered after the waitress cleared his plate. For the first time in years he did not feel hollow. He felt seen. And perhaps, he thought, he had finally been seen as well.

Three months later, Evelyn stood before a mirror in a bright flat, brushing her hair with one hand while Rosamund slept on her hip. She looked strongernot merely healthier, but alive in a way she hadnt felt in years. All because a man had said yes when the world had only whispered no.

The next morning she arrived at the modest glass building of the foundation, hands trembling, hope fragile. The moment she mentioned Davids name, everything shifted. They gave her a small furnished room in a transitional house, basic essentials, and introduced her to Margaret, a kind counsellor who never treated her with pity.

Even better, they offered her a parttime position at the community action centre. Sorting files, helping others, feeling part of something.

Almost every week David visited the office. Not as Mr. Langston in suit and briefcase, but as David, the man who once couldnt finish his meal and now smiled while cradling Rosamund on his lap during lunch.

One evening Evelyn met him again, but this time not on the pavement. It was her idea. Dinner. A proper dinner. My treat. No crying babies unless Im the one opening the wine.

Evelyn laughed and agreed.

The gastropub where they first met welcomed them to a quiet table inside. Rosamund stayed with Margaret that night, while Evelyn wore a pale blue dress that matched her eyesa secondhand find she had altered herself.

You look happy, David said over the meal.

Yes, Evelyn replied softly, and Im scared. A good kind of scared.

I know that feeling.

They shared a comfortable silence, not the awkward kind but the sort that settles between two people who simply enjoy each others company.

I owe you a great deal, she said.

David shook his head. You owe me nothing, Evelyn. You gave me something I didnt know I was missing.

She raised an eyebrow. Something?

He leaned forward. A reason.

The weeks that followed deepened their bond without ever needing a label.

David began picking Rosamund up from the nursery on occasion just to see her grin. He stopped planning Friday night dinners out; those evenings were now reserved for Evelyn and Rosamund. He placed a small cot in his guest room, though Evelyn never stayed the night.

Gradually, Davids oncemonotonous life filled with colour. He started wearing jeans to work, donated half of his wine cellar, and smiled more than anyone at his office had ever seen.

One rainy afternoon, with thunder rumbling far off, Evelyn stood on the foundations rooftop garden, Rosamund in her arms. David joined her under a modest awning.

Is everything alright? he asked.

Evelyn hesitated. Im thinking

Dangerous, he teased.

She smiled, then grew serious. I want to stop merely surviving and start truly living. I want to study again. Build a future for Rosamund and for myself.

Davids eyes softened. What do you want to study?

Social work, she answered. Because someone saw me when no one else did. Id like to do the same for another.

He took her hand. Ill help you, whatever happens. She whispered, No, I dont want you to carry me, David. I want to walk beside you. Understand?

He nodded. More than you realise.

A year later, Evelyn stood on the modest stage of a community college auditorium, a certificate in early childhood development in her handher first step toward a degree in social work. David sat in the front row, Rosamund in his lap, clapping louder than anyone.

When Evelyn looked at themher baby cradled by David, tears mingling with her smileit was clear: they had not only saved each other. They had revived one another.

Later that night they returned to the pavement where it all began. The same gastropub, the same table. Only now Evelyn was also seated. Rosamund, in a tiny high chair between them, nibbled a piece of bread and giggled as traffic rolled by.

Evelyn turned to David and whispered, Did you ever think that night was destiny?

He smiled. No.

She seemed surprised. I think it was a choice, he said. You chose to speak. I chose to listen. And we both chose not to walk away.

She squeezed his hand. Then lets keep choosing, every day.

Under the glow of the cafés lamps and the murmurs of a city that never truly sleeps, the three of them remained: three hearts, one table. Not broken souls, not charity casesjust a family the world never expected to see.

Let Me Remind You “Mrs. Mary Stevens, the curl just won’t go right here,” sighed little Year Two pupil Timmy, prodding at the stubborn, wayward green leaf on the flower he’d tried so hard to paint. “Try not to press so hard, sweetheart. Glide the brush as gently as if you’re stroking a feather across your hand. There you go — wonderful! That curl’s a true delight!” The elderly teacher smiled. “And who’s this masterpiece for, then?” “For Mum!” Timmy beamed, triumphant at last. “It’s her birthday today — this is my present!” Pride rang clearly in his voice after her praise. “Oh, your mum’s a lucky lady, Timmy. Be patient, though — don’t close your sketchbook yet. Let the paint dry, so you don’t smudge it. When you get home you can carefully tear it out. She’ll just love it, you’ll see!” Mrs. Stevens gave one last fond glance to the boy’s determined, lowered head, and, smiling at her thoughts, returned to her desk. A gift for Mum — she hadn’t seen such pretty gifts in years. Timmy clearly had talent for art. She ought to call his mum and suggest signing him up for art school, such gifts shouldn’t go untended. And she’d ask her former pupil, now a mother herself, whether she’d liked her son’s present. Mrs. Stevens herself could hardly tear her eyes away from those flowers blooming on paper — as if their living, rustling leaves might suddenly stir. Just like his mum, that Timmy! Definitely just like her… Larissa at his age drew beautifully too… ***** “Mrs. Stevens, it’s Larissa, Timmy Carter’s mum,” came a call that evening in the teacher’s flat. “I’m ringing to let you know Timmy won’t be in tomorrow,” the voice of a young woman declared curtly. “Hello, Larissa! Has something happened?” Mrs. Stevens asked gently. “It has! That rascal ruined my whole birthday!” snapped the reply. “And now he’s lying there with a temperature — ambulance left just now.” “What do you mean, Larissa? He left school perfectly well, with your present…” “You mean those blotches?” “Blotches? Oh no, Larissa! He painted you such beautiful flowers! I was going to ring you myself — to recommend art school—” “I don’t know about flowers — but I certainly didn’t expect a mangy little lump!” “A lump? What do you mean?” Mrs. Stevens was bewildered by the nervous, muddled explanation from the other end. Her frown deepened as she listened. “Tell you what, Larissa — mind if I come round for a bit? I live just nearby…” Moments later, having gained consent from her former pupil — now, in the blink of an eye, her pupil’s mum too — Mrs. Stevens took from her drawer a thick album of faded photos and precious childhood drawings from her first ever class, and set off. In the bright kitchen where Larissa welcomed her, chaos reigned. Tidying away the cake and piling dishes in the sink, Timmy’s mum began to tell her tale: How he arrived home late from school, dripping with muddy water from backpack and clothes; how he pulled a sopping puppy from under his coat, smelling of the rubbish tip — he’d gone in after it himself when bullies tossed it in a ditch. The ruined textbooks, the ‘blotched’ art book not fit to look at. And now the fever high as nearly 102… The guests had left before tasting any cake, and the paramedic had scolded her for not keeping better watch… “So I took him back, that puppy, to the very dump when Timmy had fallen asleep. The sketchbook’s drying on the radiator — as for flowers, there’s nothing left at all,” Larissa scoffed, not seeing how Mrs. Stevens’ face darkened with each word. And when she mentioned the pup’s fate — rescued, then returned to the dump — the teacher grew black as thunder. Stroking the damaged album gently, she spoke softly. Of green swirls and painted flowers, of diligence and courage, of a boy’s heart that couldn’t bear unfairness — and the bullies who tossed a helpless creature in a ditch. Then she stood, led Larissa to the window: “There’s the ditch — Timmy could’ve drowned, never mind the puppy. But do you think he paused to think? Or was he thinking instead about the painted flowers, not wanting to spoil his gift for you?” “Have you forgotten, Larissa, how you once sat weeping on the school bench, clutching a stray kitten you’d saved from the toughs? How we all stroked it and waited with you for your mum? How you dreaded going home when they threw that ‘mangy lump’ out — until, thank heavens, they let you keep him in the end? Let me remind you… Tishka the kitten, who you adored; and floppy-eared Max, the mutt who walked by your side all the way to college; even the jackdaw with the broken wing you nursed in our class menagerie…” From her yellowed album Mrs. Stevens drew a large photo: a slender little girl in a school pinafore, beaming as she cradled a fluffy kitten, surrounded by classmates. “I’ll remind you of the kindness that once blossomed in your own heart, as vibrant and colourful as any paint.” After the photo, a faded childhood drawing floated down — a little girl clutching a shaggy kitten in one hand, tightly holding her mother’s palm in the other. “If I had my way,” Mrs. Stevens spoke more sternly, “I’d kiss that puppy’s nose and Timmy’s too! And those ‘blotches’ I’d frame, for no mother ever received a finer gift than raising her child to be a true person.” Larissa’s face changed with every word. Anxious glances darted toward Timmy’s closed bedroom. Her white knuckles tightened on the ruined sketchbook. “Mrs. Stevens! Please, watch Timmy for just a few minutes — I’ll be right back. Please!” The teacher watched as Larissa hurriedly tossed on her coat and dashed out the door. Out into the night she ran, toward the distant rubbish tip, heedless of muddy shoes, calling and searching beneath dirty boxes, rooting through litter, her worried eyes ever flicking back toward home… Would Timmy forgive her? ***** “Timmy, who’s that burying his nose in the flowers — is that your friend Duke?” “That’s him, Mrs. Stevens! Does it look like him?” “It certainly does! See that white star on his paw — just like when your Mum and I were scrubbing out those muddy paws, remember?” “And now I wash his paws every day!” Timmy declared with pride. “Mum says if you have a friend, you should look after him. She even got us a special tub for his baths!” “Your mum’s wonderful,” smiled Mrs. Stevens. “Are you drawing her another present?” “Yep, I want to put this one in a frame. She’s got those blotches up in a frame, but still keeps smiling at them. Is it normal to smile at blotches, Mrs. Stevens?” “At blotches?” the teacher chuckled. “Well, maybe — if they were made with love. Now tell me, how’s art school going?” “Oh, I’m doing great! Soon I’ll be able to paint Mum’s portrait! She’ll really love that! But for now…” Timmy rummaged in his backpack and pulled out a folded sheet. “This is from Mum — she paints too.” Mrs. Stevens unfolded it and touched the boy’s shoulder gently. Across the page, a bright, happy Timmy smiled, his hand resting atop his beloved black-and-white mongrel, gazing up at him in adoration. Beside them stood a tiny, fair-haired schoolgirl in an old-fashioned uniform, cuddling a fluffy kitten; and, off to the side, peering from behind a desk piled with reading books, Mrs. Stevens herself — smiling kindly, ageless wisdom shining in those eyes. In every stroke of the painting, in every colourful mark, Mrs. Stevens felt that secret, boundless pride only a mother could feel. Wiping away a tear, she suddenly brightened, noticing a single word, spelled out in blossoms and curling green vines at the very corner: “Remember.”

Raw and Real… In This Family, Everyone Lived Their Own Separate Life Dad, Alex, had more than just a wife — he often had another woman by his side, sometimes more than one. Mum, Jenny, suspected her husband’s affairs but wasn’t exactly a saint herself; she enjoyed spending time with a married colleague outside the home. The two sons were left to fend for themselves, neglected and often wandering about with nothing to do. Their mother insisted that it was entirely the school’s job to raise her kids. The only time the whole family gathered was on Sundays, quickly and silently munching lunch in the kitchen before rushing off in all directions. They might have spent the rest of their days in their broken, sinful, but oddly sweet world, if not for the tragedy that changed everything… When the younger son, Danny, turned twelve, Dad Alex took him to the garage as his helper for the first time. While Danny was exploring the tools, Alex popped out to chat with some car-enthusiast mates working nearby on their motors. Suddenly, thick black smoke billowed from Alex’s garage, followed by flames. No one knew what had happened. (It would later come out that Danny accidentally knocked a lit blowtorch onto a can of petrol.) People froze, panicked. Fire raged. Water was thrown over Alex, who rushed into the inferno. Seconds later, he emerged carrying his lifeless son. Danny was burned all over, save for his face — protected by his hands. His clothes had been reduced to ashes. Firefighters and an ambulance arrived. Danny was alive but barely. Surgeons worked desperately, while his parents waited in agony. A doctor emerged at last: “We’re doing all we can. Your son is in a coma. His chances are one in a million. Medicine can do no more. If Danny fights with everything he’s got, maybe a miracle will happen. Be strong.” Without thinking, Alex and Jenny dashed to the nearest church, drenched by a wild downpour, desperate to save their boy. For the first time in their lives, they entered the sanctuary. There, in the hushed gloom, they found Father Simon. “Our son’s dying! Please, what should we do?” Jenny sobbed. “Ah, so in need you come to God? Are you very sinful?” the priest asked bluntly. “Don’t think so. Never killed anyone,” Alex muttered, avoiding Father Simon’s piercing eyes. “But you killed your love for each other — it lies dead at your feet. Between loving husband and wife, not even a thread should pass. Between you, you could lay a tree trunk and it wouldn’t touch a soul! Pray for your son’s life, children. Pray hard. But remember, it’s all God’s will. Sometimes, God teaches the foolish this way. Otherwise you’d never learn. Love saves all.” Soaked through and through, Alex and Jenny knelt before the icon of St. Nicholas, sobbing out their prayers, making promises, vowing to end all their affairs. The next morning, the phone rang. Danny had come out of his coma. His parents rushed to his bedside. He tried to smile through his pain. “Mum, Dad, please don’t split up,” Danny whispered. “Why do you think we would, sweetheart? We’re together,” Jenny soothed, stroking his hot hand. Danny winced. “I saw it, Mum. And when I have children, I’ll name them after you.” Alex and Jenny exchanged glances, thinking Danny was talking nonsense — children? He couldn’t even lift a finger, barely clinging to life! But from that moment, Danny began to recover. All the family’s efforts went into saving him; the holiday home was sold. The garage and car, lost in the fire, could have helped too — but the only thing that mattered was that their boy survived. Grandparents chipped in however they could. The family rallied together in their shared grief. Even the longest day must end. A year passed. Danny was now at a rehabilitation centre, able to walk and look after himself. There, he met Mary, a girl his own age, also a burns survivor, her face terribly scarred. She was shy, never looking in mirrors. Danny was drawn to her gentle spirit and inner wisdom, wanting to protect her. They spent every free moment together. Both had known unimaginable pain and despair, learned to swallow bitter medicine, grow unafraid of needles and white coats. Time passed… Danny and Mary had a quiet wedding. Two beautiful children followed — a daughter, Charlotte, and, three years later, a son, Eugene. At last, the family seemed settled and at peace. Yet, at this point, Alex and Jenny decided to part ways. Everything with Danny had left them empty and weary. Both craved freedom and calm. Jenny moved in with her sister in the suburbs, but first stopped by the church for Father Simon’s blessing. She often thanked him for Danny’s life, but he always reminded her: “Thank God, Jenny!” He wasn’t pleased she was leaving, but said gently, “If you must, go and rest. Sometimes solitude is good for the soul. But come back! Husband and wife are one!” Alex remained alone in their empty flat. The sons, now with families of their own, lived separately. Even the former couple visited their grandchildren at different times, careful not to cross paths. In short, now everyone was comfortable…

I’ll Remind You — “Miss Mary, look, I just can’t get this curl right,” little Tom whispered sadly, poking his paintbrush at a stubborn green leaf on his flower painting that just wouldn’t curl the way he wanted. — “Don’t press so hard on your brush, darling… Like this—paint as if you’re tickling your palm with a feather. There! Well done! That’s not a curl, that’s a masterpiece!” smiled the elderly teacher. “And who’s the lucky person getting such a beautiful picture?” — “It’s for my mum!” Tom beamed, proud now that he’d conquered the stubborn leaf. “It’s her birthday today! This is my present!” His voice was tinged with a touch of pride at the teacher’s praise. — “Oh, your mum’s a lucky lady, Tom. Wait a minute—don’t close your sketchbook yet. Let the paint dry so it won’t smudge. When you get home, carefully tear the page out. Your mum will love it, you’ll see!” Miss Mary watched the small, dark head bent so intently over the drawing, then smiled to herself and returned to her desk. A present for mum! Mary couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen such a beautiful gift. Tom really did have a talent for art! She must call his mum and suggest signing him up for art classes—you can’t let a gift like this go to waste. It might be nice to ask her old pupil if she liked the present too. Mary herself couldn’t tear her eyes from those flourishing leaves and curling stems on the paper. It almost seemed as if they might rustle to life at any moment. Ah, he takes after his mother! Just like her. Larissa was a gifted little artist at his age too… ***** — “Miss Mary, this is Larissa, Tom’s mum,” came the evening call in the teacher’s flat, the young woman’s voice strict through the receiver, “Just phoning to say Tom won’t be in tomorrow.” — “Hello, Larissa! Is something wrong?” Miss Mary asked gently. — “Wrong? He ruined my whole birthday, that’s what! And now he’s lying in bed with a fever—the ambulance only just left!” — “A fever? But he left school perfectly well—and he was bringing you his present…” — “You mean those splodges?” — “What splodges, Larissa? He painted you flowers! I was just about to call you, to suggest art school for him…” — “I don’t know about flowers, but I certainly wasn’t expecting a scruffy heap!” — “A heap? What are you talking about?” Miss Mary was at a loss, frowning more deeply as she listened to Larissa’s agitated explanations. “Larissa, do you mind if I come over for a bit? I’m not far…” A few minutes later, with her former student’s consent—now, somehow, her pupil’s mum—Miss Mary was out the door, carrying an old album full of faded photos and remembered children’s drawings from her very first, long ago, beloved class. Larissa led her guest into a bright but chaotic kitchen. Clearing cake and dirty plates, she started to explain: How Tom arrived home late, caked in mud and water from his bag and clothes… How he pulled a drenched puppy from his jacket, reeking of rubbish, the poor creature thrown into a puddle by older boys—and how Tom had scrambled after him. How ruined textbooks and stained paintings were all that remained, the album on the radiator, nothing left of the flowers but a mess. How the guests left without tasting cake, and how the doctor had scolded her, a careless mother letting her child fall ill… — “So I took the puppy back to the dump once Tom fell asleep. The album’s still drying, but there’s nothing left. I can’t bear to look at it.” She didn’t notice how each word made Miss Mary grow sterner, nor how she darkened completely when Larissa recounted the puppy’s fate. Miss Mary stroked the ruined album and, quietly now, spoke— She talked of green curls and living flowers, of a child’s diligence and bravery beyond his years. Of a boy’s kind heart and about the bullies who’d thrown a helpless puppy into that puddle. Then she stood, took Larissa’s hand, and led her to the window: — “See there? That puddle? Tom could have drowned instead of the puppy. Do you really think he thought about that? Perhaps he was thinking of the flowers on his painting, hoping not to ruin his gift for you? Or have you forgotten, Larissa, how you once cried on a school bench in the old days, hugging a stray kitten you saved from bullies? How the whole class gathered, waiting for your mum? How you didn’t want to go home, blaming your parents when they tossed that ‘scruffy ball of fur’ out… Good thing you changed your mind in time! Well, let me remind you! And Tiddles, the one you couldn’t part with, and floppy-eared Max, that puppy, always by your side until university. Even the rook with a broken wing you nursed in our class pet corner…” From her yellowed album, Miss Mary took an old photograph—a slim girl in a white pinny, clutching a kitten and beaming at the crowd of classmates—and continued, voice gentle but firm: — “Let me remind you of the kindness that once blossomed in your heart in bright colours, against all odds…” An old drawing fluttered from the album onto the table—a little girl holding a scruffy kitten, her other hand clutching her mother’s. — “If it were up to me,” Miss Mary went on more sternly, “I’d shower that puppy and Tom both with kisses! I’d frame those colourful splodges! Because there’s no better present for a mother than raising a child who turns out a decent person!” The teacher didn’t notice Larissa growing paler, worrying glances thrown toward Tom’s bedroom, or the way her fingers clutched that ill-fated album… — “Miss Mary! Please, could you keep an eye on Tom for just a few minutes? I need to—please, I’ll be quick!” Under her teacher’s kind but watchful eyes, Larissa hurried into her coat and rushed out. Not caring about her soaked shoes, she ran back to the dump in the distance, calling and searching beneath cardboard boxes and through rubbish bags, anxious eyes straying again and again towards home… Would he forgive her? ***** — “Tom, who’s that with his nose buried in the flowers? Is that your friend—Digger?” — “That’s him, Miss Mary! Looks just like him, doesn’t he?” — “He does! And the white star on his paw—you painted it perfectly! I remember helping your mum scrub those paws, you know,” the teacher laughed kindly. — “I wash Digger’s paws every day now!” Tom said proudly. “Mum says, ‘If you have a friend, you take care of him!’ She even got us a special bath for him!” — “Your mum’s wonderful,” smiled Miss Mary. “Are you working on another present for her?” — “Yep! Going to put it in a frame. She’s still got those splodges on the wall, but now when she looks at them, she smiles. Can you smile at splodges, Miss Mary?” — “Splodges?” The teacher chuckled. “Maybe… if the splodges are made from the heart. Tell me, how are you getting on at art school? Is it going well?” — “Brilliantly! Soon I’ll be able to paint my mum’s portrait! She’ll love that! But for now—here.” Tom reached into his bag and handed her a folded piece of paper. “This is from my mum—she paints now, too.” Miss Mary unfolded the sheet, squeezing his shoulder gently. Smiling up from the page in a scatter of colourful paints was a beaming Tom, his hand resting on a black-and-white mongrel gazing at him adoringly. On the right stood a petite, fair-haired girl in an old-fashioned uniform, hugging a fluffy kitten… On the left, behind a desk laden with books, sat Miss Mary herself, smiling, her impossibly wise eyes watching over the happy children. In every brushstroke and dab of colour, Miss Mary felt the warmth of a mother’s pride. Tears sparkled, but she smiled as she noticed, in a quiet corner edged with flowers and curling green stems, a single word, lovingly written: “Remember.”