The Hours

She writes slowly, her hand trembling a little, the scribbles hardly readable.
I don't think two people could have been happier than we have been.
She thinks of the late mornings in their Bloomsbury apartment, the smell of cigarettes and freshly cut flowers, Leonard's warm hands caressing her soft skin.
Always the years between us.
She thinks of the thick wrinkles in his face. The constant worry, the helplessness. Her madness became his to bear.
Always the love.
Virginia takes a deep breath and steps into the cold water of the Ouse. The voices. Silent at last.
Always the hours.