As if under a spell, she watched him write a story. Whether that story had been a generic one, or one about her past life she didn't know, but she watched him all the same.

It seemed to be important and she wanted this moment to be forever etched into her memory. She wanted to remember him like this. His broad-shoulders moving to the rhythm of his thoughts, and darting hand that left elegantly written letters on the area of paper it had passed by. The way his heavily starched shirt crinkled and the way he occasionally paused to read over the sentence before, and the way he would take off his fedora with a flick of his wrist and then run his hands through his hair when he couldn't place down the words he wished to.

She would remember them all, and cherish them all, all of her final memories of this ridiculously sardonic, but passionate man she would take.