The next day, Victor returned to the river.
The air was mild, and the wet grass clung to the edges of his boots. He now knew the path by heart. The day before, he had run without waiting for Emma, straight to the doctor's shop. It was the first time in years he'd set foot in town. He had placed all the money in his pockets on the scratched counter and, out of breath, asked the doctor to go to the church and treat a little boy. He hadn't managed to find Emma afterward, and he hadn't dared go to the church, afraid to interrupt something. So that morning, he hoped to see her.
Emma was already at the river. Sitting on a flat rock, feet in the water, a line in her hand. The net lay nearby. When she looked up at him, she gave a faint smile. Tired, but sincere.
"He's sleeping," she said without waiting. "He… sleeps better now. He's not delirious anymore."
Victor stepped closer and set his book on a fallen log, still a little hesitant.
"The doctor… came?"
"Yes. Thank you."
There was a silence. She set her line aside, and then, almost instinctively, walked up to him and hugged him.
A real hug. No shyness. No hesitation. Just what she had inside her chest: relief, gratitude, an immense exhaustion. Victor froze for a second, then slowly wrapped his arms around her. She smelled of the river, the wind, sweat, and fear still clinging to her shoulders. He said nothing. He didn't know what to say. But he held her a little tighter.
She pulled back first. Picked up her fishing rod again. Sat down.
"The doctor gave him some medicine. He didn't say what it was. Just that it happens sometimes. Sudden fevers like that, in little ones. Some you just can't explain."
Victor sat down on the opposite rock, where they usually sat. He watched her pull up the net and retrieve two small fish. Emma looked tense, but calmer. As if the panic had passed, leaving only a faint breath of vigilance.
"Want me to help check the snares later?" he offered.
She shrugged.
"If you want to."
So they spent the day together. She walked ahead of him—swift, agile—Victor struggled to keep up but never complained. He liked watching her move, seeing her focus on the tracks, her precision. Sometimes she showed him footprints. Sometimes she said nothing at all. He didn't dare ask too many questions about Dennis, afraid to stir up the fear again. But she still talked now and then—about the days Dennis would run around, asking a hundred questions a minute. About how he loved making up ridiculous songs with two notes and silly lyrics about rain or potatoes.
Several times, she smiled at Victor.
They each went home in the late afternoon. Victor lingered long at the manor door.
—
The next morning, she wasn't there.
Not on the rock, not on the path. The net hung empty, swaying gently against the shore. He waited ten minutes or so, sitting, eyes fixed on the water. Something tugged inside him, a vague sense of foreboding. He finally stood up.
He walked quickly toward town.
He went to the church first.
The sister who opened the door recognized him—probably from his signet ring—and gave him a polite but weary smile. He asked his question in a low voice, a bit awkward, as though the words were heavy:
"Emma. Is she here?"
The sister looked at him. Her smile faded.
"The young one? No. She left last night. After… after it was over."
Victor's heart stopped for a second.
"Over?"
The sister gave him a kind look. Almost too kind.
"The boy. He passed in the night. She stayed a while. Then she wrapped him herself. And left without a word."
Silence fell. And emptiness too.
"Do you… know where she lives?" he asked.
She nodded and pointed him toward a small back lane, on the edge of the workers' quarter, near the gates of the old mill.
Victor set off without thinking. His stomach ached. He was sad, worried, torn apart. And Emma? She was all alone. She'd just lost the last family she had. He couldn't let her face that alone in an empty house.
—
The house was tiny. No bigger than a shed. A tin roof, a door half-open, dirt for flooring. A thin smoke rose from the blackened chimney pipe.
Victor knocked. No answer.
The door was ajar. He stepped in slowly.
Emma was there, sitting in front of the fire. Arms wrapped around her knees, eyes red, lids swollen. Her dark circles were deep, her hands clutched tightly to her legs as if to keep herself from falling apart.
She looked up at him. No surprise. She must have heard his steps on the dirt.
He froze for a moment, then walked toward her slowly. He didn't know if he should sit. If he should speak. The silence between them was so heavy it could have crushed them.
Emma spoke first. Her voice was hoarse. Broken.
"He was getting better. I swear."
Victor didn't move.
"He slept all day yesterday. No more fever. He even ate a bit. He asked me if we were going to the river."
Her voice trembled. She stopped, her eyes filling, but she didn't cry. She looked into the flames, as if the truth were hiding there.
"And then in the night… all of a sudden… the fever came back. I didn't understand. I did everything I could. I wet his forehead, gave him the drops… His breathing was strange. And then it stopped."
She went silent. A real, harsh silence. Victor felt his throat tighten.
"He wasn't even six," she whispered. "I don't know why. There was no sign. He wasn't even coughing."
She started crying then. Silently. Slow tears, without sobs. It had gone beyond that. There were no screams. No rage. Just the breaking.
Victor finally knelt beside her. He reached out his hand. She took it.