The two of them are walking in the field, stepping against the bend of snow-dusted grasses under which mice and wood voles scrounge. Winter is not far away.
“It’s nice to be back,” he says, breaking their silence. The wind bends the grasses, scatters the light snow in ghosts of gusts. It catches the edges of their jackets, billowing them open; he crosses his arms over his quilted coat to keep it closed.
“I missed this landscape,” she agrees as if she were just thinking the same thing, but not saying it. She is walking at his side, lifting her knees at each step to get her feet free of the grasses. At the field’s edge trees cluster, the beginning of woods, and their naked, lonely branches create a haze of brown against a sky whose color is an uncertain blue-grey…
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