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Furina marvels at the back of her hand: flesh stretched and softened by time, veins tracing their way under her skin—so blue!—all the marks life has left on her, indisputable proof that she has lived long, and lived well.
"When did we get so old?" she asks in wonder, then lets out a soft rasping laugh—like the crinkling of aged paper—"Well, I've gotten old, meanwhile you look as youthful as ever, Monsieur."
Neuvillette doesn't say anything, only reaches up to gently yet firmly clasp her hands, bowing his head; Furina smiles indulgently and closes her eyes, content to spend her last days in her oldest friend's company.