Zoé was young still. Too young yet to enjoy the tranquility of a still pool, broken only by bubbles from the fishes whispering underneath; too young to appreciate the calming rush of a brook that smoothed stones to tickle the bellies of salmon. She could not fault her daughter. It had taken Céline many years to reach this point, and many tears she had wasted before she realised that water from her eyes would not nurture a fish.

“There are other fish in the sea,” Céline said, knowing her daughter would only stop crying once she took that advice literally.