Frances dropped the heavy card box in the living room with a huff, cursing – in her head – about the insane weight of knowledge. Books! Her arms ached from the strain, but luckily, they were now done. And if she was being honest, Tristan didn’t have that many things in the first place. Occupational habit? She hoped he wouldn’t freak out on her shoe collection… But to think he had moved his belongings, trip after trip, by hand from his former room to the youth hostel didn’t sit well with her. “I welcomed the exertion,” he said, “It helped me think at the time.”
— “So, next moving, we’ll put half books, half clothes in those card boxes, right?”
Her casual tone carried well over her small living room, but Tristan was frozen beside her great-grandmother’s dining table. Frances frowned.
—
