L'été De - Tous Les Chagrins !link!

But her hand slipped. The blade gouged a long, ugly scratch across the stone. For a moment, she stared at the gash. Then, without thinking, she kept carving. She carved Léo’s name and then scratched it out violently. She carved Papa and then shattered the tip of the blade on the hard stone.

One evening in late August, she sat on the cracked stone wall overlooking the lavender field. The lavender had already been harvested; all that remained were scruffy, gray-green stubs. The summer was ending, and she had nothing left. No father, no first love, no grandmother, and a brother who was a ghost in a small boy’s body. l'été de tous les chagrins

That was sorrow number one: the reopening of a wound she thought had scarred over. But her hand slipped

But in that single touch—a small, calloused hand on a scarred one—Chloé understood something. Sorrows multiply. They stack up like summer thunderheads. But they do not have to be the final word. Then, without thinking, she kept carving

She sat there until the sky turned the color of a peach bruise. Then, she heard a rustle behind her. Lucas. He had followed her. He didn’t say anything. He just sat down next to her and leaned his small, warm head against her arm.

That was the second sorrow: the cheap, hollow kind, the one that leaves a bruise on your pride.

The summer ended the next day. A cold mistral wind blew down from the Alps, scattering the last of the dead cicadas. As Chloé locked the farmhouse door for the last time, she looked back at the stone wall. The word Assez was already fading under the wind.