They left grandmother's house.
They walked for a while without saying anything.
She felt the embarrassment on her — for the situation, for the way she'd seen him, for what she'd understood without anyone explaining it to her.
At a certain point, without thinking too much, she tried to speak.
He stopped.
He lit a cigarette, unhurried, his gaze elsewhere.
"Don't."
She froze, the sentence still suspended halfway.
"Don't what?"
He turned toward her, looked at her with a neutral gaze. He took a drag, then let the smoke out slowly toward her.
"Don't invade my solitude."
He stayed a second longer. Then he turned and walked away.
She stayed still where she was.
She watched him move away, his steady steps, his straight back, never looking back.
She said nothing.