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”