Mark was everything I’d ever dreamed of. Caring.
Gentle. Attentive. The kind of man who remembered how I took my coffee and texted me good morning every single day.
We met two years ago at a bookstore.
I was reaching for a novel on the top shelf, and he appeared beside me with a stepladder.
“Need some help?” he’d asked, smiling.
That was Mark. He was always thoughtful and present.
He’d been married before. His wife, Grace, passed away three years ago after a long battle with cancer.
He told me once, late at night, that he didn’t think he’d ever fall in love again.
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