Blue necklace left/ On a charred chair/ Tells that Beauty/ Was startled there. - Alun Lewis

In post, a box of books arrive.

Is this what happens when the weather in the inconstant heart shifts? Like weeds that must be purged, does one take down the books given by a lover (about whom the heart is certain no longer - was he the beloved or a passing hope?), and send them back with no note?

Handwriting in blurred blue on the label is all she has left to remember of his hands by - those which quickened her charred beauty once.