photo credit...GrenOuille |
I imagine him visiting a place where he and his wife came often before she passed. A place where they would eat a picnic lunch and steal a kiss or two when no one was looking. Afterwards they would ride back to their small village together.
He smiles to himself as he closes his eyes and looks into hers again. He remembers the afternoons they spent sharing some wine, a baguette and many tender moments. They came here to get away from the rest of the world, to be alone. Now he comes to be alone with her memory. Afterwards he rides back to the small village, alone.
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