She is in a train station. Travellers are waiting, She analyses their postures and how they look at the timetables. She turns her face to the metal structures. She follows the frameworks, the rivets and the windowpanes with her eyes. On the floor, a piece of paper, which nobody notices. A train arrives. The flow of people spreads on the platform. She is waiting for his call. He hears the train. He is writing on the typewriter and listens to the mechanic noise of the letters. One by one. On the paper. He thinks he will not see her again. She is so close in fact. Next street. She doesn't know that he's here.

He came to see her. And now, just silence. In a few moments, he will be down in the street, to loose her, without her knowing. On the other side of the river, the train is slowing down. She is looking at the landscape. Her see-through face. On the fold down table lies the book she is translating.

She takes notes, her computer linked to a microphone. She holds it in her hand, dictating words, sentences, and paragraphs. She was alone at the funeral. She was late, in the numerous alleys. There was a large lawn and ashes scattered in the wind. She will not hear her foreign language again.