For years she knows that the man she fell in love with will never come. But she stands at the edge of the slope and looks far away as if waiting for something. Her feet touch the train track, the steel that burns from the heat. She does not gaze at the forest on the ridge above, nor the blue waters below her, which spread like a silky carpet along the mountains. Her eyes are fixed on the horizon of the railway line. For a long time, she remains motionless, like a scarecrow that grew among the thyme and the bushes with thorny edges. The birds are not afraid of her. They have seen her many times gazing at the rails that disappear into the distance. She does not hope for trains that will steal him from his life and bring him close to her. But no matter how beautiful she is, when she stands on the line she becomes like those eerie figures one meets on deserted roads. She looks as if waiting for something that will save her from her loneliness.
As soon as she feels her bare arms burning from the sun, she puts on her straw hat and takes the road back. She descends the overgrown path towards the sea, climbs over the low wall of the estate, and slips into the orchard she made with her own hands, back when she returned from the war. She passes the entrance of the large house standing in front of the bay, turns left under the old cypress tree of the garden, and takes the path with the rose bushes, at the end of which appears the door of the freshly whitewashed farmhouse. The building was once a stable. Now it is the makeshift clinic of the seaside village. She enters, opens the shutters wide, and the room floods with the golden-blue light of the shore. He is awake in bed. His eyes sting from the sunlight, but they never lose her, following her everywhere.