Francis stood at the grave, running his finger across the name etched on it. Her name. Jeanne d'Arc. After softly brushing off any dirt or leaves that had accumulated, he began placing a dozen red and white roses onto it. He had done this every year on this day for decades, and this year was not an exception. This year would have been her six hundredth birthday. He could not believe it. It seemed like only yesterday that it had happened. He missed every moment they had spent together; from spring days spent walking hand in hand through the flower-filled meadow to the last night they had spent together before she left. As he placed the last rose on her grave, he said a silent prayer before turning to leave.
"Bon anniversaire, Jeanne" he whispered, "I wish I could be with you again, mon ange."
Translations:
Bon anniversaire= Happy birthday
Mon ange= My angel