She thinks of returning, once he's dead and gone and her life turns blank, leeched of color and joy. She thinks of sitting in the halls of her father's house until they grow bare and empty as her heart, dusty and disused, with only the echoes of love and memory to sustain her, until she is as one of the statues in the gardens, an object of curiosity, of a past long forgotten by all who remain.

In the end she rejects this, and travels forward rather than back; she is yet made of softer things than stone, and he awaits her still, beyond the endless shores of the world.