[She's found that days are easier if she's doing well enough to manage to get out of the house - the days when she's not caught under memories and knowing of what she once was and how there are only tatters of that left to her now. Going out, walking, going into town, it helps to distract her. She likes the book store, likes the old-vanilla smell of the pages overlaid with the sharp dark of French Roast from the coffee shop. Whenever she goes out, she's stopped by at least one of the town's senior ladies, fussing a little and telling her that she needs to eat more. That she's looking too thin. And she is - she's not used to taking care of a human self. So it chases her toward the coffee shop and the bookstore, where the ankh catches her eye.
She stops and stares at it, not moving for too long. Her stillness attracts attention, and it's not until someone clears their throat at her that she moves again. And then she's grabbing the paper off the board and walking home as fast as she can (coffee abandoned on a cafe table near the door).
Once she's home, she stares at it some more, holding it in careful fingertips, bringing it up to her nose to see if she can catch even a hint on it of the way he smells, sticking her tongue out just a bit to lick the corner of it. Nothing brings forward anything more of him until she hold it up to the light and sees the numbers.