She opened the book and a dead rose popped out. She held the rose delicately, and stared at it. The dead, but striking rose brought back tons of sweet memories. With the rose still in her hand, she began to read. She began to read what he had written for her, how he had recreated her. She smiled as she noticed all the diminutive details. As she was half way down the page, a sparkling tear drop made its way down her cheek and landed on the page, just below the coffee stains. She had always favoured his rapturous work. The enthralling words in the book made her feel his presence, and she was covered in a warm blanket of his love. She shut her eyes, and his face flashed in front of her. A square face with thick eyebrows and sparkling eyes, long hair, a shaggy beard, and a charming smile that made her forget all her sorrows. She closely felt his passion. She remembered how he used to listen to what was unspoken, and then write about the silence. She remembered how he made flowers bloom, even during heavy storms. She was lost in the maze of words, and feelings. She took flight with his columbine writing, and once again, he proved that an artist never dies.