a small gift

they sat across from each other, the small wooden table between them. the air was thick with the smell of filter coffee, the sound of laughter and conversation from the cafe outside. she pushed a small package across the table, wrapped in brown paper and twine. he picked it up, feeling the weight of it, the shape of it, before unwrapping the paper to reveal a small, leather-bound book. he opened it, running his fingers over the pages, feeling the texture of the paper. it was a collection of poems, dog-eared and annotated, with notes in the margins. she had written his name on the first page, in a script that was both familiar and strange. he looked up, meeting her eyes, and for a moment, they just sat there, the only sound the hum of the cafe outside. then, without a word, she got up and left, leaving him alone with the book, the words, the memories. he sat there, frozen, the book open in front of him, as the sounds of the cafe slowly filtered back in.