“To tell you the truth, I was there that day,” the woman says and stops walking for a second. Then begins to walk again.

“To the church? Why didn’t you talk to me?” asks the man quietly as he looks down, walking next to her.

“At that time, we were just former lovers,” the woman strokes the rail of the bridge, then takes the glove off.

“Then why did you come to the church?” he peers into her face.

“I don’t know. I just knew I had to go.” She lightly touches the streetlamp, and, finding a scar, she traces it with her fingertips.

“How ironic is it that here we are, walking together once again on Pont Neuf.”

“Once upon a time, we were lovers. Now, as brother and sister.”

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