The workshop was deserted. Dusty and cobweb-covered, there was no sign of what had happened here. Marie stepped over the nails and boards left hastily on the floor. She looked for a sign… anything that could jar her memory, help her remember that moment. She had only been sixteen. Now she was thirty; she would be more careful. With her index finger she carefully wrote his initials in the sawdust. She imagined hearing the scream of the saw blade cutting through the board. It stopped, he stepped forward, and kissed her firmly on the lips. Together they ran toward the setting sun.
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