And now there was a sound. It took Rodin a moment to realise it was the sound of crying. The old man’s body spasmed with each sob. A tear appeared at the edge of an eye, built up, then flowed over his skin, running along the creases on his cheek. And the old man was muttering. Rodin caught a few words - ‘how many’, ‘bring her back’.
He waited. The man brought his hands up to his face, his eyes. His mouth opened, and he yelled. A strong roar, but it changed. It weakened, became choked, and disappeared as a croaky cry, barely a sound at all.
A question, repeated. “What have I done? What have I done?”
The old man let his head fall into his hands, elbows resting on his knees.
The question echoed in Rodin’s mind. But it was in the past. There was no way to change what had happened. Dwelling
