Tarmac pathways lead between grassy areas and ancient chapels. There are photos on some of the tombs as reminders of those who have passed away: a mother, a husband, a brother who died before their time. There are flowers on the graves and the shimmer of marble softens the harsh sunlight and fills the silence with an almost rural tranquillity. Michel leads me through the carefully laid-out paths, shoes crunching on the gravel. Grief is closing in. He stops before a grave with a black granite headstone heaped with mounds of wreaths and dazzling flowers. An inscription reads: .
Émilie absently leafing through a large hardback book. Émilie the day before her engagement party . Ahead of me the path is reeling. I feel ill. I try to walk faster but I can’t. Like in a dream, my legs refuse to move; they are rooted to the spot.