He thought it was their first date; she knew it was their anniversary. The desert atmosphere guided her steps, thirsting for the slightest echo that might call to her. No sound resonated in the abyss of her senses, save for the certainty of a reality awaiting her eyes. Like an oasis of peace where she could finally lay down the weariness of the long journey, whose beginning had been lost in time. Her filthy shoes slowed her pace; all around her an expanse of earth, and above all, nothing to see. Only the sky seemed to welcome her with its orange hues, both languid and decadent, recalling the atmosphere of the book cover left on her bedside table: the same instantaneous quest for hours, a summer coastline maintained before each winter, where the minute noise could fill the absence of any human presence. Perhaps she wasn't even there, lost in her thoughts, searching through her memories. They had forgotten one detail, the memories, she thought: an incredibly dense tree, teeming with herons, right at the edge of the path. Without hesitation, she decided to approach and observe the birds' charm, their wisdom guiding the valley. Perhaps they were migrating, searching for the same rivers that had always captivated her, for no water source was visible, and the dampness didn't seem to favor their passage. Counting them would have been a waste of time. Perched on a cherry tree in out-of-season bloom, she decided to sit and contemplate the magic of this mystery that intrigued her. The scene was so immobile that no gesture, no movement, not even a word was necessary. Sitting on the scorching earth, clad only in a simple dress to protect her legs—the same white dress she wore at night, slipping her elusive dreams beneath a veil of innocence—the picture was complete, she thought, white upon white, she and the herons, bearers of wisdom and patience. But perfection does not last, for time passes and change regains its perpetual presence in every consciousness. A heron rose from the flock, cleaving the air toward the horizon, captivated by the irresistible urge of a bold soul. She followed its swirling flight, the rushing water of a waterfall, pirouetting with precision in the soft light, ever farther. Finally, weariness compelled the bird to cease its dance, setting foot on another piece of earth—the one it had found, on the other side of the tree. She did not notice the excitement in her hands, gripping the earth, turning it over. Without intentions, she was its reflection, striving to fly, to cut in two this wall of platitudes for her humanity. The untidy mounds of earth surrounding her clearly reflected her birdlike feelings, at which she smiled, attempting to mend the surface by turning over the soil. The completion of her duties lasted only a few moments; a flash of light caught her eye: it was a ring-shaped jewel, etched into this barren, forgotten corner. Inside, the groom's name, William. No other detail could explain such a loss. She slipped the ring onto her finger, and it looked perfect on her dirty hands. Though the earth seemed to tremble as if from an earthquake, her heart, on the contrary, was at peace, finally whole. What more could she hope for? In this desolate land, to be the only one fulfilled and married. Her feelings were a mixture of bewilderment and joy. Maybe someone had lost the ring. Perhaps he had been there, waiting for her all along. She continued to admire her hand. Such an accomplishment wasn't her priority. She simply wanted to pause before returning to the main road, which she had perhaps left a few minutes or a year earlier. The heron was still there. In the distance, it stared at her. She stood up to follow it, barefoot. The closer she got, the more the landscape opened up before her, transformed by the drowsiness of a desiccated body. But the heron did not move, like a marker of a lost time, curiously observing her arrival; she could make out its silhouette, a mirage of a destination. Just beyond a small hill, a church. How could she have missed it before? A redundant chapel in a forgotten bucolic scene. Abandoned to time. She entered. Near the altar, his silhouette, a shadow of happiness mingling with the image of a solitary pilgrim. This was no time to escape the fleeting nature of a desired event, for Bach's Fuga was beginning to permeate the space. Finally, they found themselves face to face, reenacting an unimaginative, age-old ceremony. He smiled at her in his black suit and said, “I, William, take you, Grace, to be my wife, to love and cherish from this day forward, for better or for worse, in wealth and in poverty, in sickness and in health, until death do us part.” He took the ring from her, kissed it, and gave it back to her. It was her time. “I, Grace, am losing you day by day, and it has been a year already. Do you know me? Who am I when sick, tired, lost in the confusion, alone, sad?”. The bells interrupted the idyllic poetry to announce the union, so that all who needed to know in the valley would be informed. The alarm clock on her bedside table rang longer that morning. When she awoke, her wedding dress was still hanging in the wardrobe, just as she had left it the day before, an intertwined bouquet of cherry branches lay on her bed, and heron sweets were in a basket carefully placed on the table. She looked at her hands; the ring was still there. A name, Grace, was engraved on it. "I, Grace, take you, William, to be my husband, to love and cherish from this day forward; for better or for worse, in wealth and in poverty, in sickness and in health, till death do us part," she seemed to remember.