Rhys slowly opens the book. He is not sure what he was expecting, but he was not expecting a scrapbook of locations, pictures, written word, printed word, a variety of things that look jumbled but somehow, all come together under a single date to paint a comprehensive picture.
The first thing he notices is his name on repeat. For the woman who refused to call him Rhys, she refers to him by his first name numerous times in written word. His name jumps out at him between all the other words and for a moment his thumb runs across it, feeling the indent that the pen left behind. He likes the way she writes it, and he is not sure if he has ever seen it before and that is even with her attending the same classes he did at school.
He never once checked whether the young girl was able to keep up
