In the shadow of St. Rumbold’s tower he found a piece of paper with a woman’s face on it. It appeared to be an obituary, though he wasn’t sure. He knelt down and picked it up from the walkway. His intention was to toss it in the nearest trash bin. But something about the woman’s face stopped him.

“Can you read this?” he asked him wife. “I don’t speak Dutch.”

Beth took the crumbling piece of paper and scanned it for a moment. The day was cold and gray, the wind slightly cool and blowing her brown hair in such a way she looked classically beautiful if anyone cared to notice.

“The language is French, not Dutch, you goofball.” She was smiling at Mack, once again proud she was the smart one in the family. “I don’t speak French or Dutch. Why do you care?”

Mack reached for the paper now dangling from Beth’s hand and glanced at the woman’s face. What was it about her eyes that bothered him? A bead of sweat on the back of his neck was tickled by the wind, the cool air that was now becoming very cold.