Together, they leant on the balcony of their honeymoon hotel, looking at the sunset. She soaked up the warm summer evening, the fragrant cooking smells from neighbouring houses, the distant lapping of the sea. He just took a photograph.
As time went on, holidays were always the same. She revelled in new sights, smells, people. He collected them and took them home in his camera
"Look at the composition in this one!" he would cry, when they got home. "The way I've got that tree, that bridge."
But he hadn't seen the lightening streak of a kingfisher, heard the gentle plop of a trout, or even noticed the new dress she was wearing.
Ten year on, it was the same.
"Leave your camera behind, just for once," she pleaded, as they prepared for an anniversary holiday.
"Not a chance!" he laughed.
"But you can't take home a sunset," she told him.
"Just try me," he said.
They travelled to the coast.
"I must catch this," he said, as they stood on a cliff top, watching the waves foam and crash on the rocks below. But he didn't hear the cry of the gulls that wheeled above, or feel the soft turf beneath his feet.
He probably didn't feel the push, either. It was such a gentle push. Almost loving.
But this time, it was the police who took the photograph.