Sometimes you only realize things are true after you’ve said them. She smiled and it occurred to me that eyes aren’t the only way to see. Little by little, you do eventually come to understand some very important things in life. It’s hard to believe, because you couldn’t care less about them to start with. Slowly but surely, that’s how you become less small.

The people from the fair had left and the boules players were back in the square. Now and then you could hear the metal balls knocking against each other.

“Shall we go into the church?” asked Marie.

I thought back to the first time I’d shot into that little church. In four months, I’d now been to church more often than in the last twelve years. It was dark and cold inside. Churches aren’t very welcoming places if you’re looking for consolation. Comfort is important for that: it’s no joke if you have to put up with even more suffering before you can be consoled. I know you shouldn’t be too self-indulgent, but still.

In the church, it was now Marie who was leading me, not the other way around. Anyone would have thought that she was able to see perfectly and that I was the blind one. We stopped in front of a statue of the Virgin Mary holding her son, all broken from the crucifixion. I’ve never really liked that sort of religious stuff: speaking bluntly, all that business with the cross, I don’t really get it, to be honest. But in the current situation, I was keen to take an interest and show that I was open to spiritual things. Marie was murmuring in front of the statue and I assumed she was praying.

Then she leant towards me and asked, “Do you believe in miracles?”

I was stuck for a reply, I can tell you.

“It depends…” I said, hesitantly.

“It depends on what?”

“Oh … it depends … it depends … well, it depends on the miracle!”

There was nothing more to say after that. But before leaving her in front of her big square house, I told her not to forget the money for the school trip to Paris. Our art teacher wanted to take us to the Louvre Museum in the spring. Marie pressed her lips together and I could see she was worried, because paintings aren’t the same as maths: it’s a lot more complicated when you can’t see anything at all. I told her I’d give some thought to the problem. Then we said goodbye and I watched her going a little stiffly up the garden path, probably focused on counting her steps. That was her life now: a life counted out in footsteps.