Inside the house, the woman reaches out into the darkness. She gropes for the velvety comfort of the young man’s hand but only feels the panic that comes with flailing in an empty space. A dim light grows brighter in a corner somewhere above her line of sight, so gradual it locks her heart in suspense. The man is there, a few steps ahead on a narrow stairway. A small candle glows at his socked feet, its light throbbing and pulsing like a heartbeat. There does not seem to be anything else inside the cottage. No hallway, no drawing rooms, no furniture … just a tiny recessed entryway, a single pair of straw sandals, the stairs, and her patient companion, shoes in hand. As she runs up to him, disjointed thoughts flit across her mind: What was the architect thinking when he made the front door on the second floor? Not like a Tasha Tudor cottage at all. She thinks about asking … later, of course. Not that the architecture matters. This place is romantic and gorgeous. It is as she has always pictured a foreign cottage. Well, almost, because when she thinks about it, it is quite a strange design for a house. She giggles again and sighs with happiness when she regains the comfort of the young man’s sleeve. She does not say a word to him. The wide grin on her face is enough to express her feeling without uttering a syllable. She could content herself with walking these steps for the rest of her life were it not for the one with whom she is about to reunite. He is close by; she can feel it. She leans her head on the young man’s shoulder, tightens her grip around his arm, and sighs as loud as she dares.

Now the climb is even more awkward for the young man. The flight seems to grow longer with each step. The muscles in his legs burn, but at last the stairs — like all stairs — come to an end, and relief kicks in. Not much longer now.