It's been sixty-five years, and he has watched her everyday of them. She had celebrations, parties, she laughed, she cried. She visited Paris again when she was fifty-seven, and every bit of beauty had stayed from all those years ago.. And he was there, with her, every day. Even now, as she lies surrounded by people who knew her, weak and old. Grey and wrinkled. She just as beautiful as that last day. She takes her last breath and the people around her sob their goodbyes and condolences. But he does not. He fills with both sadness that her life has ended, such a sad thing for a life such as hers, but there is an overwhelming feeling of joy. Deep joy.
She is there in the doorway, standing tall, her hair now dark again, her skin firm and her body, strong. They just look for the moment, drinking it in. She fills the room with a breath. He'd like to close his eyes and inhale with her, but he does not, he can't waste his sight on the back of his eyelids when she is standing a metre away.
A tentative step forward, her breath hitches, she takes a hand and glides it across his face, feeling for the first time in forever the skin that she's missed. Neither of them speak, for there are no words powerful enough for this. He takes her hand and places a kiss in its palm. They are both so gentle, so still, for what seems like hours, just staring into one-another.
It's been sixty-five years, and he has watched her everyday of them.
"Enzo?"
"Hello, love."