We met on a rain-soaked Tuesday in a bookshop that has since closed. Amelia was hiding from the weather in the poetry aisle; Theodore was looking for a map he did not need. He asked her what she was reading. She told him to guess. He was wrong four times.

Nine summers later, on a terrace above Lake Como, he asked a different question. She said yes before he had finished it — which, she insists, is the only time she has ever let him finish a sentence.

We would love nothing more than to begin the next chapter with you beside us: a long table, the last of the evening light, and every person we love in one place.