I worshipped your existence above my own. I loved you in isolation from myself, separately from my own desires, and I made myself more discreet than a shadow to watch you for hours when you didn’t notice me. You never could make love to me? You can even less now? So little had changed, really. Nothing would have been more absurd than to leave you for a legendary newborn. That child was none other than you and me, melted and shrunk. I would surely have hated it. You see, everything happens for a reason: there was no room for a crib in our place.

A few years ago, in a distant land recovering from fifteen years of dictatorship, an absolute love was born between a French journalist and a painter returning from a long exile. The day the man took a fall with dramatic consequences requiring emergency treatment in France, the pedestal of their marriage wobbles. 

The reader walks in the footsteps of the bewildered wife, from Naffa to Paris, from the moment she learns of the “ accident to the one where she recovers a body…