Book: A story about love

People either love each other or not, and sometimes the love arises between those who ought to love each other.

- I will never forget.
- You've said, but that's not gonna happen, not the way it is. You will be forgotten.
I will never forget. Something will come up and only you will never forget, he said.

She was the girl that always seemed to passed through the old town in the green the shade under the arches of the oaks and elms was, and her face slid iridescent shadows, and soon she had attracted all eyes. She was just the embodiment of summer - marvelous peaches - among the snowy winter, just cool the milk to corn flakes in the early morning in the June heat.

In the afternoon he went to the cemetery and found her grave. "Ann Taylor, born in 1910, died in 1936," was written on the headstone. And he thought: twenty-six years. Yes, I'm older than you by three years, miss Taylor.

And the rare fine days, when nature all is in balance, just the maple leaf, supported by light blows of the Holy breeze, read these days, like Ann Taylor and its name and should be called from the calendar.

- I'm back - with a laugh she said.
- Imagine, I'm not surprised, he said.