It was a bright Sunday afternoon.
They were walking down the narrow street in a little town in Bretagne.
They had walked down this street many times before: in winter, spring, summer, autumn.
She talked about little nothings, he listened; with admiration, with love.
The cane he held had become a part of his life. He had become a part of hers.
He took each step slowly, cautiously, breathing heavily. She held his free hand tightly and continued singing poetry to him.
Very few people passed by at this time of the day but those who did tilted their hats when they saw him.
He was thinking how much he loved her; she was picturing the chocolate cake lying in the fridge.
And then he stopped.
She asked him what the matter was.
The cane fell to the ground first.
She shouted, her eyes brimming with tears.
She shook him but he did not move.
And just like that, she lost the man she loved the most.
Twenty years later when she would be all grown up, she wouldn’t remember his face, nor the long afternoon walks down the narrow street in a little town in Bretagne.