Ethel Mary

Every day you sit in the high-backed chair by the window; the sun streaming in, dancing with your curls.  A smile plays upon your lips at one of your private jokes.

   You spend many hours there a day writing stories.  Your last one was about a little girl whose brother went to war and never came back. Do you remember?

 Who is this little girl that you write about, Ellie? You told me it was about a girl called Ethel Mary, isn’t that you?  But every time I ask, you just shake your head, “No,” You say “It’s about Ethel Mary”

The End

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