As Pierre woke up from his daydream, he remained seated in the armchair apathetically. After a while, he took a deep breath and exhaled sharply. It was a resigned exhalation. He felt empty. Pierre thought about treating himself for a moment and allowing himself a brief moment of pleasure. But he couldn't think of anything he would have liked to do or have right now. Even if he had had every opportunity, every power and all the wealth on earth, he wouldn't have known what to do with himself. He was so empty within himself that he didn't have a single desire.
The most obvious thing that could make a person feel positive again was food. Pierre thought of everything he had in the house, but felt no appetite. Not even a cool glass of orange juice, his favorite drink, could tempt him out of his chair. The leftover pieces of chocolate left him equally cold. The little pleasures of life did not fulfill their eponymous purpose. He thought of Claire. Her letter was still there in his bag, unopened, but whether he opened it or not didn't matter. He could already assume the content of the letter. And even if it had been another one, he wouldn't have cared. Pierre's look wandered around the room, but didn't stop anywhere. The walls were bathed in a golden hue and the evening sun was beginning its play of the colors. But the small and beautiful things in life no longer moved him. Pierre looked out of the window. He saw the shape of the sun's thick rays through the fine dust in his apartment, which reflected some of the golden light.
Outside the window, an unpruned bush of autumn lilac was in late bloom. The bright pink color of the fruit seemed strangely out of place in the twilight and the otherwise barren garden. The thin branches of the bush swayed gently in the breeze rising from the strait. Pierre thought of a song that a fruit seller on the street had sung cheerfully as she was tidying up her goods. One line stuck in his mind in particular. “The lilac blooms as if I'd never even said it”. It wouldn't bloom for much longer. And then this bush would be as barren and empty as Pierre's inside.