And you're not leaving," she said. "Promise me." It was as if she had asked him to promise to keep breathing, to notice sunshine, to permit the spinning of the earth. What choice did he have? Even if he left her, she would be camped in his heart, an insistent and willful presence. She would match her strides to his on any journey he ever took; she would lie beside him on any bed. Amalie, he said, "that's the easiest promise I've ever had to make.

You have not traveled enough," she said. "Or you'd know that every journey makes its own map across your heart.

I have changed for the last time--this is the man I will be till I die. And that man loves you.

For the world slows and the stars falter, and all that remains is you.

She shouldn't leave you. Or you shouldn't leave her. I haven't worked it out yet. But you shouldn't be apart.

Manufactured--synthetic--even virtual, if that is what you turned out to be--I would love you.

Are you asking me if there is a god?' he said, still in that soft voice. 'All I can say is, I believe there is. I feel him when I sing. He has responded to my prayers countless times. He guides my actions and he dwells in my heart. I know he is there.