Countless nights had he walked these city streets, under throws of equisite Parisian light. Alone in the small secret hours, he would catch whispers of her, the soft quiet of her cadence, dancing on the breeze.
Her whole heart, for her whole life. These had been her whispered words to him. But then as quickly as she had exploded into his life, her love had retracted, imploding in on itself, consumed by the endless aching hunger of her pain.
And all at once, he was again alone, and it was almost as if she had never been.