Four other children were running around in the garden.
A little girl, the only one with dark hair like Claire, was laughing in her mother's arms.
The sunset painted everything in gold.
Alexandre, in a linen shirt and worn boots, watched the scene leaning against the fence.
He no longer needed to prove anything.
Claire approached.
She intertwined her hand with his.
— What are you thinking about?
He looked at the children.
Then the horizon.
"On that road," he replied. "The day I braked the car."
He paused.
— On that day, the man who believed that money was power died… and another was born. The one who understood that the only true wealth is that which he almost lost.
Claire rested her head on his shoulder.
It wasn't a perfect story.
It was a rebuilt love.
With scars.
But solid.
Behind them, the children were shouting, running, falling and getting up again.
The house was full of life.
And Alexander knew, with absolute certainty, that of all that he had possessed in his life, nothing had ever been as precious as what he had almost let die out of pride.
