She walks barefoot through the town. Her senses are lit up in a way she no longer thought was possible. The crisp smell of earth beneath her fine-boned feet. The wind tugging desperately at her robe, her brittle hair, hair that shone gold only a year ago, now hanging limp and white. Her legs had forgotten just what kind of effort it took to get to the lake, especially the climb up the rocky hill to get a good look above it. She’s had to stop to rest a number of times already. The wind is still clawing at her, trying to get her to turn around. But she can’t. Not now.

She hasn’t been here in a long time. When she considers the way things have turned out in the last year, she realizes she hasn’t really been anywhere in a while, that her wallpaper and pillow have been her only bits of engaging scenery. Surrounded by doctors and household staff — that is when she felt most alone. But here, on a cliff above the lake, watching the surface of the water bristle and break as the breeze churns the surface, she feels like she’s in good company at last. She raises a hand in front of her, reaching, making it level above the water, pretending for a moment that she’s floating. And what she’s dreamt of for months from her sickbed in a tangle of despair and guilt, it’s there, right there. And so is he. It’s all she’ll ever need.

She takes a step. Then another. And another. She is still reaching.