“May I ask what’s so funny?”

“You.”

“Can you explain?”

“That’s why I’m here.”

“Well that’s a relief.”

“It’s time.”

“Time for what?”

“Closure. Or, if you like, acceptance.”

“Are they the same?”

“That depends on you.”

“Let me think about it.”

The wind chime tinkled again. I stared down at a grasshopper crawling through the blades of green. It looked awkward with its uneven legs. Suddenly, it was gone in a verdant flash. I recalled her leap in my dream. What was it? Sauté?

“Yes, Sauté. Have you decided?”

“Not yet.”

“Do you need a little help?”

“Yes please.”

“This is what you have to do. Visit every place you shared, either physically or in your head. Spend time there alone, getting to know the place again. As if it was your first time there.”

“OK I’ll do that. I accept your challenge.”

“There you go then. That’s it.”

“Acceptance.”

“Good choice. That’s my name.”

“Your name?”

“Yes. Acceptance. That’s what I am called.”

I looked at the area of grass where the insect had landed, several feet away. Something drew me to it. I got up and walked over to the spot. Gently, I poked the toe of my trainer into the place. Another great leap from the grasshopper.

“Did you see that? It’s got to be a grasshopper world record,” I declared. There was no response, not even a tinkling of glass. I turned towards the bench, which was empty. Scanning the surrounding landscape, there was no sign of life.

“Life?” I laughed. Like a toilet flushing in a drain. “Acceptance.” I headed back to breathe life into my three day old crust.

***

I took down my air fryer from the shelf on which my host had reluctantly made space. Even though the large cottage kitchen was full of appliances, like the raclette machine, my small Ninja AF100UK was frowned upon. It was as if I had introduced fire to a tribe of lost Amazonian Indians. As I brewed a cafetiere of coffee and combined it with warm milk, I contemplated my enigma’s instructions.

Visit every place you shared, either physically or in your head.

I had tried that before; Ghostbusting I called it. All I succeeded in doing was wandering aimlessly around some famous landmark rueing her absence. I compared it to the so-called treatment a psychologist had prescribed. The Write Her a Letter  and Empty Chair exercises. Both had equally disastrous results, despite costing me sixty pounds an hour for the privilege. What was different about the woman in the red shoes? I filled the warmed crust of the ancient baguette with soft Breton butter impregnated with crystals of seasalt and placed it on my tongue. The combination was surprisingly pleasant.

Stop dwelling on the past and embrace the challenge of making breakfast with an ancient French stick.

I decided to follow the advice of the woman in the red shoes, at least in my head. Luckily France had been a no-go area thanks to the restrictive passport of my ex. I retired to my room and lay on the bed. Closing my eyes, I selected a venue. The small Scottish Border town of Melrose.