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The gravel crunched under the paws of the setter, a well-behaved, almost philosophical dog, like Erasmus might have had one—thoughtful, quiet, with an eye for the essentials: For he bore these names, apparently with dignity, aware of this obligation with every step he took. His owner strolled just as relaxed through the rose garden with the old reddish-brown male dog, the air heavy with the scent of the last blossoms, and he felt good. Awake. Light. Perhaps even carefree, certainly exhilarated. And then - there she was.

She was not beautiful in the sense of an age catalog. She was beyond that. Tall, upright, with a face marked by time itself - with a grace that was not ironed out, but lived. Her eyes - gray-blue, alert - belonged to a woman who had seen. A lot. Perhaps too much. Perhaps just enough. Whether she had experienced it, one had to question, he thought a little absent-mindedly.

The little Maltese at her side suddenly tugged at its leash. First growling, then barking alarmingly sharply. Not at the dog. At the man, it seemed. Or at what he was thinking. Perhaps at what was there - beneath the thoughts, between glances, in the limbo of the unspoken.

She lost the leash, probably hadn't anchored it properly or had held it too loosely. The dog broke free, made a few erratic jumps, then stopped abruptly - uncertain whether to flee or attack, unsure how to proceed. The man knelt down, stretched out his hand calmly and confidently in a gesture of appeasement. The setter remained seated, watching the scene with the patience of an ancient Greek - stoic, not even changing his expression. The Maltese was caught before he could even enjoy his freedom. She approached him, apologetic, blushing. Her blouse was wide - not immodest, no. More like old-fashioned and generous.

And underneath—you couldn't really see it, but you could sense it—something was moving. Not fleetingly. Not coquettishly. Something soft. Something that was no longer tightly bound, but also not abandoned. Her breasts seemed to be alive, even though she herself stood like a statue, unwilling to move because she knew that any movement could be too much.

"He's a little nervous sometimes," she said. Her voice—not loud, but clear. And with a warmth that lingered. Like an echo. The man held the animal out to her, feeling her fingers touch his only slightly, but still.

"Understandable," he said. "The world is big. And full of young dogs."

She smiled. At first cautiously. Then more broadly. And he saw her lips part, her mouth saying more than her words. He also saw her glance down briefly—at herself, past him—and then clear her throat.

"Thank you... for catching him."

He could have said, "No problem." He could have smiled and walked on. Erasmus might have had a phrase about humanity and animal love at the ready. But the man looked at her. And said, "I think he wanted to test me. Or save you."

She laughed softly, a laugh that couldn't quite decide whether it was shy or just long unused. Then she became serious again. Not closed off. More attentive, and when she thought about it, she wasn't quite sure why she took the next step, which was so uncharacteristic of her. More thoughtful and reserved, but meeting him here had an opening and thoroughly liberating effect.

"My name is Anna," she said. "And you?"

"Richard. Student. Literature." He made a little bow that made her smile.

"I see..." She nodded. Her fingers stroked the Maltese's head. But he only had eyes for the setter. And Richard's eyes—they were fixed on the way her collar had slipped. A piece of skin on her collarbone. A fold so delicate that you wanted to caress it with your tongue.

And there was that thought again. Not an image. Not an idea. But a knowledge. A knowledge that burned like a quiet flame beneath his

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