He used to see her everywhere: in the jars of chamomile tea leaves, in the ​pencil strokes along his canvas, in the void of the mansion that echoes without her sound.

It became bearable after he tucked her away, in the mosaic portrait, in Adrien, and in the basement.

Sometimes, though, he slips up, but Nathalie only politely ignores it, nodding when he corrects himself by addressing her again, with the right name.