It came back to me then. That day, sixty years ago, when I'd left her house in tears and caught sight of him standing against a tree holding a notebook, waiting to go to her after I'd gone. A few months earlier, we'd been the closest of friends. We'd stay up half the night with a couple of other boys, smoking and arguing about books. And yet. By the time I caught sight of him that afternoon, we were no longer friends. We weren't even talking. I walked right past him as if he weren't there.

Just one question, Bruno said now, sixty years later. I always wanted to know.

What?

He coughed. Then he looked up at me. Did she tell you you were a better writer than I?

No, I lied. And then I told him the truth. No one had to tell me.

There was a long silence.

It's strange. I always thought-- He broke off.

What? I said.

I thought we were fighting for something more than her love, he said.

Now it was my turn to look out the window.

What is more than her love? I asked.