The wind blows lightly at her face, slightly, gently caressing her cheek, pushing her solitary tear, slightly to a detour. She looks on, into the breeze, over the cliff, over the horizon. As if searching, hunting, awaiting something; or someone, with great passion but knowing within her heart and mind, that the one will never come. That time has passed, that nothing can be done now.
He died the year before. She didnt know, she still doesnt know, but knows that if he still lived, he would have been there for her, with her, holding her as they stood atop the cliff, breaking the continuity in the breeze, peacefully.
She knows from his words that he is no more. He wrote to her once that he would be amongst the thousand or so men that would probably confess their love to her in her lifetime. He would be the only one, if only one person did so, but if she was ever alone, afraid, broken, he would have been dead.