Salty tears flow down her cheeks. She is standing with her back towards him, her arms clutching a photo frame containing a picture of a Maltese puppy. The sun tries to pierce through the curtains on this young day in spring, while the air is still cold and damp. For a moment her face grows white by this gleam and thus she looks even sadder. He stands behind her, wraps his arms around her and lays his chin on her shoulder. In a reflex she turns her head towards him. His lips touch her cheek and he tastes her briny skin. A shiver goes through her body. He grasps her tightly and whispers in her ear:
'You have nothing to reproach yourself, I was wrong. Everything will turn out right.'
She lets her head hang down. Then she gets rid of the hug of his arms and she puts the frame back on the cupboard. She turns around and again her eyes start to fill with tears. She sobs and asks:
'But how could this happen?'
'He must have slipped out when I went to the bakery. It really was impossible to see Rocky because of the fog. I thought he was still upon the bed with you. Honey, I promise, we'll go to the kennel tomorrow and then we'll buy a new puppy. Which will we pick out: an Irish wolfhound? It will be impossible not to see him on our driveway in such foggy weather. '
He takes her in his arms and mumbles:
'Sweet darling, if you don't mind, I've already chosen a name: Misty.'