"Let's go for a walk," he suggested.
"Let's ... I brought my coat, just in case."
"Oh, it'll probably rain."
They passed the hospital, passed a grove of pines, the path strewn with muddy needles: he stopped by a new sundial surrounded by dried flowers: hand in hand they read the Falsum Stare non Potest and laughed because they couldn't translate. The château's four stubby spires and slate roof were wet, forlorn, seemed misplaced history: the châteaux and the war were millennia apart; so were the swans unreal as they fed close to the shore of the Petit Lac.
Face uplifted to his, she said:
"I come here sometimes ... to rest ... to think of you."
"Lonely, that's it."
"There's something here..."
"Before the war ... but now."
"Just getting away..."