11. 26th July 1914 ~ Edward.
I got home all right. I unlock my house and trundle in. I kick off my old and worn boots and settle into my cold, hard bed.
I think about Rose.
Her raw modesty about how radiant she is.
Her smooth cheeks when she blushed.
the little dabs of freckles scattered over the bridge of her nose and her musical voice when she spoke.
Her honest soul.
She was perfectness in a small, innocent body with a massive heart.
I never wanted to let go of her, and I would never let anything touch her, as long as I lived.
I knew I wasn't worthy of her. But I would try to prove it.
This question spins around my head, even after I fall asleep.