Author's note: Thank you very much for all your reviews; I will reveal what happened to Jane little by little (but don't be worried, it won't take 40 chapters to explain it) and I really promise sweet moments as well.

...

Chapter Two – They Call It Spleen

The moment Maura put a foot outside, she felt guilty. Guilty for leaving Jane alone, guilty for the sentiment of freedom that the immensity of the scenery offered compared to the confined space of their cabin and the oppressive tension that pressed on their shoulders.

She took a deep breath.

The air was chilly but the sun was shining high in the sky already, promising one of these beautiful days that seemed to reveal nature in its most glorious way. She wouldn't go very far. Just a morning walk by the lake to check the area.

She took a small path, her steps stifled by an endless carpet of pine needles. She wouldn't let Jane win this fight. She wouldn't let her succumb to her trauma. She couldn't do that.

They would take this path together one day; hand in hand. It was just a matter of time. She had to keep that in mind. They had arrived the evening before, she couldn't hope for Jane to change within the night.

I will go to Greenville once a week to keep in touch with you. Once there, I will send you mails to let you know how she is doing. Maybe you will even be able to visit us at some point. Who knows? But she needs distance for the moment.

Yes, she needs distance. And we need patience.

Something had darkened in Angela's eyes – probably the reflect of her sore heart – but she hadn't complained. She had immediately accepted Maura's suggestion instead.

For the sake of her daughter. They had to save her one way or another and if it meant taking distance with her then she would do it.

"Good morning."

Maura had reached the last curve of the path when a woman in her sixties appeared on her right. She was holding a large bouquet of wild flowers; gray strands of hair dancing in the wind, caressing her face with the same sweetness as the one her smile reflected. Maura nodded back at her. She hadn't expected to come across anyone. It was still rather early.

"You must be Maura. I am Martha." The woman held out her hand. "My husband welcomed you last night. Dan...? I was in town."

"Oh... Nice to meet you." Maura shook Martha's hand.

Moosehead Hills Cabins was a very small resort, the only one based on this side of the lake. The others were on the opposite bank. Its quietness and distance with the rest of the world was one of the reasons why Maura had chosen it. They would be fine, here.

"You came with someone, didn't you? We prepared the cabin for two."

Maura's hesitation betrayed a thousand untold things. Unable to put words on a situation she wasn't sure how to deal with, she gave up and let her cowardice win. She pointed out the bouquet that Martha was holding.

"Are we allowed to pick up wild flowers?"

Not a very subtle way to change topic but Martha didn't seem to take it badly. She didn't insist and gladly answered Maura.

If the mountain flora had to remain intact, picking up flowers around the lake was just fine. The spring had sprung rather early this year and a multitude of species had already blossomed. If she was interested, Maura could stop by the main cabin where Martha and Dan lived to check their flower glossary and learn a bit more about the local flora. Martha would be more than glad to share her knowledge about it.

They were the only guests, for the moment. People mostly came during the summer. The lake couldn't be quieter. They had chosen the perfect season.

...

Maura brought a hand to Jane's nape as sweetly as she could then delicately pressed on her forehead to make her lean her head backwards. Every single movement echoed an invisible caress, a touch that was likely to make her relax. Jane fought against it for a couple of seconds but finally abdicated.

She closed her eyes. She hated doing so. It had turned into a cruel synonym to flashbacks and feelings that made her panic. Then she was paralyzed by fear and everything crashed down into a thousand pieces.

"Is the water too hot?"

The drops began to run through her hair, warm like an embrace. Maura's extra-care was comforting and seemed to stir up an ounce of feelings Jane had thought lost and destroyed. A surge of guilt invaded her. How did she dare to feel fine after what she had done to Hannah?

"No."

The successive movements of pressure on her head caused her breath to grow louder. The massage was perfect. Too perfect. She didn't deserve it.

The strawberry scent of the shampoo made her feel nauseous. She was alive. Every single detail yelled at her that life was going on and that she was a part of it as if nothing had happened.

As if she hadn't pulled the trigger on that street.

Charles Baudelaire used to called it 'spleen'. It is the quintessence of deep sentiments of despondency, of solitude, of anxiety and of boredom. A complete absence of desire. The fear raised by the idea of being alive, and why.

Clinically, it is a depression. All the symptoms are here. And depression is one of the multiple forms through which PTSD appears.

She burst into tears as unexpectedly as life could be. Loudly.

Her sobs swept away the silence of the bathroom and made everything freeze. It would have probably seemed curious to many but it was only through pain that Jane accepted the idea that she was still breathing. Crying was just the way her body had found to remind her when needed that the world kept on turning.

Maura immediately put down the shower head and held Jane against herself as tightly as she could. A hand on the back of her head, the other one against her spine.

She closed her eyes and plunged her face in the crook of her neck.

Whenever Jane broke down, Maura felt an excruciating pain invade her own body. It wasn't empathy but physical pain as if Jane's own one was so strong that she would pass it on her within a heartbeat.

"It is okay..." Maura's whisper floated above their heads with tenderness.

Her warm lips brushed the wet flesh of Jane's neck in a quiet kiss. She remained still then waited for the cries to cease before speaking again.

"Let's move to the living-room."

Jane nodded between two sobs. The tears had stopped running down her cheeks but she hadn't even noticed it. They walked to the main room together then sat on the couch. It wasn't even noon yet. The day would be long; long and painful.

"It's a beautiful bouquet."

The remark took them both aback. Jane hadn't talked about details of life since the shooting. Something started glimmering in Maura's eyes. Quiet hopes, probably.

"I picked them up for you."

She had put into action Martha's words earlier in the morning. Once she had reached the lake, she had started picking up wild flowers to keep her mind busy and before she had a chance to realize it, she was holding a large bouquet in her hand.

"I like them...?"

Jane's statement sounded like a question, as if she didn't dare to let the words come out. The truth was that she felt bad. She wasn't supposed to enjoy anything. It was an insolent feeling to allow such idea to make it to her mind. She couldn't tolerate it.

"Maybe I could show you the place where I found them? This afternoon?"

"No."

Jane hadn't meant to sound harsh but her reply nonetheless turned to be extremely scathing. She raised a hand in the air to apologize but didn't add anything. What for, anyway? Whenever she spoke, her cruelty showed up in a frightening way.

"Tomorrow, then."

Maura's stubbornness didn't fool anyone. As much as she held hopes over it, she was convinced that Jane would also refuse to go out. She rushed to the kitchen to take distance with her friend and the latent lie she had said out loud then pretended to be busy checking the contents of the fridge. She wasn't hungry and felt like crying. Had she really assumed that she would have what it took to get Jane out of the dark whirl of feelings she had lost herself into?

"I..."

She didn't finish her sentence. Leaned against the door of the fridge, she remained still; astounded. Jane had grabbed Martha's flower glossary and was reading it. An insignificant gesture for most of people but not for Maura. And even less for Jane. It was the first time that she focused on something else than staring blankly at a wall without moving an inch.

Maura poured herself a glass of water then stepped out on the covered porch, eager to not interrupt her friend. She sat on one of the chairs. The waters of the lake were glimmering under the sun. The scenery was breathtaking.

Just as warm and hopeful as the smile that now played on her lips.

If the spleen is the opposite of an ideal for Baudelaire, he still used to see in it a strong source of inspiration for his poems. If joy can be a moment of beauty, it usually turns out to be a mere, cheap ornament of it when its infamous companion - the real one - usually is melancholy.

It was through her pain that Jane would find out the key, that she would find the strength to overcome what was happening.

She didn't have to pretend that it wasn't there. On the contrary. She had to face her fears to realize that she could keep on living in spite of everything.