She smiles and sighs a breath that smells of herring, rice and capers. She smiles and a lone fish scale glints from between her teeth. Behind them, mother and child, a window allows a view of the sky, allows cold to fill the room and the sounds of the crowd gathered below to push them deeper into solitude. Alone but satisfied: milk and flowers, a window and shadows. She sighs and tears the flowers from the source, a fistful of weeds thrust in shadow, and lifts them for the child to see. Two buds, white and frail, held before his eyes. He reaches for her hand, for the buds, to steady them and pull the flowers from the stem, to complete the separation. Flowers pinched between fingers, stem dropped to the floor.