The summer ended the next day. A cold mistral wind blew down from the Alps, scattering the last of the dead cicadas. As Chloé locked the farmhouse door for the last time, she looked back at the stone wall. The word Assez was already fading under the wind.
But her hand slipped. The blade gouged a long, ugly scratch across the stone. For a moment, she stared at the gash. Then, without thinking, she kept carving. She carved Léo’s name and then scratched it out violently. She carved Papa and then shattered the tip of the blade on the hard stone. l'été de tous les chagrins
Now, sorrow number four was the quietest and the worst. Chloé’s little brother, Lucas, who was seven, stopped speaking. He would only sit by the empty chicken coop, humming a tuneless song. The doctors called it “selective mutism.” Chloé called it the sound of a family collapsing. The summer ended the next day
She began carving the date: Août 23 .
On the fifth day, she died at dawn. The nurses drew the curtain. Her mother, who hadn’t cried since the postcard, finally shattered. The word Assez was already fading under the wind
