The south through France had a shabby little inn halfway between two small towns. A rusty tin sign creaked in the wind outside, painted with a crude picture of an old stone bridge. The inn sat beside the main road, with the river flowing behind it.
What passed for a garden was really just a patch of dying plants, a few struggling olive trees, withered fig trees, and some scraggly vegetables that looked like they were losing a battle against the scorching sun. A lone pine tree stood in one corner like a forgotten guard, its branches cracked and dried by the relentless heat.
The surrounding landscape looked more like a desert than farmland. A few pathetic wheat stalks dotted the dusty ground, each one serving as a perch for grasshoppers that filled the air with their endless, annoying chirping.
