Work Text:
Carl would often pull down all the cold scrapbooks when he felt a bit lonely. He would feel that yawning gap in his heart that Ellie left behind, he would look outside at the big, wide world, seemingly so cold and empty without her, and he would pull down the old books she had made.
He settled himself in his favorite armchair - her’s - and he flipped through page after page of their adventures, from childhood to her very last week of life. He felt a bit better afterwards, like the knot that had settled in his chest had loosened a bit with each turn of the crumbling pages. He held the books close and inhaled; they still smelled like her, vaguely. They had caught the scent of her, the traces of perfume and earth that she always carried, and they had clung to it, these pages, trying to keep the memory of her alive, as it was their job to do.
Carl clutched the books to his chest and watched the snow drifting to the ground outside his window, but he felt peculiarly warm. He settled into the cushions and tightened his grip, just a bit. The bindings smiled.