HomeParis, Sometime in the Spring -
The Louvre was quieter in the late afternoon, when the light slanted gold through tall windows and tourists thinned to a hush. Claire stood alone before the Mona Lisa, sketchbook in hand, though her pencil had stilled. She wasn’t drawing—just studying, the way she did when her heart was full and her thoughts tangled. A few steps behind her, a man lingered longer than most. He wasn’t looking at the painting. He was looking at her, though not in the way she was used to. There was curiosity in his gaze, and something gentler—like he recognized the ache of someone who loved art not just for what it was, but for what it stirred inside.
She felt him before she saw him. A subtle shift in the air, that peculiar awareness that blooms when you’re being watched—not with menace, but with intention. Claire didn’t turn. Instead, she let her eyes linger on Lisa’s smile, that enigmatic curve that had mirrored her own confusion since she was a girl. Her heart was full, yes—but not with joy. It was crowded with too many things: the ache of a letter unanswered, the weight of expectation from a mother who believed marriage was the only proper brushstroke in a woman’s life, and the pull of dreams that didn’t fit neatly into anyone’s frame but her own.
She could hear the man’s footsteps, soft-soled and measured. He wasn’t close enough to intrude, but near enough to unsettle the careful stillness she wore like a shawl. She wondered if he was one of those tourists who came to Paris chasing beauty like a scent on the wind. Perhaps he would say something foolish, or flattering. Perhaps he would say nothing at all.
And strangely, she realized—she hoped it wasn’t the latter.
His name was Henry Whitmore, though most people in New York called him Hank, a name he’d always felt didn’t quite suit him. Paris, at least, didn’t seem to mind what he was called. He’d arrived three weeks earlier on what he had told his family was a “business opportunity,” though there was little business involved. The truth was messier: the sudden death of his older brother, a woman who no longer waited for him in Connecticut, and a growing fear that he was becoming a stranger in his own life. So, he bought a ticket, packed a single suitcase, and told no one when he’d be back.
He came to the Louvre often, drawn by something he couldn’t articulate. It wasn’t just the art—it was the stillness, the sense of being surrounded by beauty that had endured. Some days he sat in the sculpture wing, sketching badly in a notebook he’d picked up in Montparnasse. Today, though, he had wandered into the Salon Carré, where a young woman stood with her back to him, unmoving before the Mona Lisa.
There was something about her posture—an elegant defiance, as though she belonged more to the painting than the world around it. He didn’t know her, of course. But watching her look at that portrait felt strangely like witnessing a private confession. He didn’t mean to stare, and yet he did. Not out of desire—though she was striking in a way that resisted easy description—but because she seemed real in a city full of performances.
He hadn’t planned on speaking. And yet, as the hush of the museum deepened, he found himself edging closer, the beginning of a phrase—clumsy and half-formed—waiting behind his tongue.
He cleared his throat softly, rehearsing a phrase in his mind one last time. Then, as if summoned by a force more daring than he felt, the words slipped out.
“Elle… elle a un beau sourire, non?” he said, gesturing vaguely toward the Mona Lisa. The accent was unmistakably American. The cadence hesitant, like a man trying on a suit that didn’t quite fit.
Claire turned slowly, eyebrow arched, eyes dancing with quiet amusement. “Oui,” she said, tilting her head as if inspecting both the painting and him. “Mais I think perhaps you mean ‘elle a un joli sourire.’”
Henry winced. “Ah—yes. Joli. Not beau. I knew I’d mess that up.”
She laughed—not unkindly, but like someone who’d needed a reason to. “It’s charming,” she said. “Your French. You’ve nearly made her smile wider.”
He grinned, relieved by the warmth in her voice. “Then I suppose I’ve done more than most today.”
They stood in silence for a moment, not awkward, but suspended—like a rest in a musical phrase waiting for the next note. The buzz of quiet footsteps, the occasional shuffle of shoes against marble, the low murmur of distant voices—all faded as the space around them settled into something just between two people.
She looked at him more carefully now. “You’re not from here.”
“No,” he said, slipping his hands into his pockets. “New York. Though I left it behind a few weeks ago. Paris seemed like a better place to be lost.”
Her expression softened, as if she knew something about that kind of drifting. “And do you often get lost in museums?”
“Only the best ones,” he replied. “And sometimes, in front of the best paintings. Or people.”
Claire tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and regarded him with something between curiosity and caution. “You came all the way to Paris to get lost?”
Henry shrugged, his eyes wandering for a moment toward the painting again. “I suppose I came hoping to find something, too. Not sure what, though. Maybe just… something that felt real.”
She nodded slowly, as if the words landed somewhere close to her own restlessness. “Art has a way of making things feel real—even when everything else doesn’t.”
He smiled at that. “Do you come here often? Or is that just a line I should be avoiding in French?”
She laughed again, the sound like light in the still room. “I do. Some afternoons, when I need to breathe. The world feels quieter here.”
“And the Mona Lisa?” he asked. “Does she help you breathe?”
Claire tilted her head thoughtfully. “She listens. That’s more than most people do.”
Henry glanced at her, surprised by the depth in her voice. There was something gently sad in it, like she’d been holding words inside too long.
He hesitated before speaking. “Would it be… strange, if I came back tomorrow? Around this time?”
She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she closed her sketchbook and held it loosely at her side. Then she looked up at him, smile faint but unmistakably sincere. “It would only be strange,” she said, “if you didn’t.”
And with that, she turned and walked toward the grand exit, her steps soft, leaving behind the subtle echo of pencil dust and possibility.
Henry stood a moment longer beneath da Vinci’s gaze, his heart lighter than it had been in months. Tomorrow, then. Same place. Same hour.
And maybe—just maybe—the beginning of something neither of them had come looking for.
Henry – Left Bank, Early Evening
The sun dipped low over the Latin Quarter, casting long shadows that pooled in the narrow streets. Henry walked without purpose, his hands tucked into his coat pockets, a half-smile still lingering from the museum. The city had a way of pulling a man out of himself—streetlamps flickering to life like candlelight, accordion music floating from a distant café, the scent of warm bread curling from a boulangerie window.
He passed shuttered bookstalls and lively students spilling out of wine-soaked corners of conversation. A cat darted across a cobblestone alley. Somewhere, a saxophone played a low, wandering tune that seemed to follow him as he strolled. But through it all, Claire stayed with him—the way she tilted her head, the light behind her laugh, the softness in her voice when she said she listens.
He stopped beside a small brasserie and leaned against the cool stone wall, watching the world blur past. He’d been in Paris nearly a month, and for the first time, he didn’t feel invisible. He didn’t feel lost. He had a place to be tomorrow—and someone waiting in it.
Claire – Along the Seine, Dusk
Claire walked the quai with her coat buttoned high, the wind teasing strands of hair from beneath her beret. The Seine moved beside her like a breathing thing, its surface dark and silvered by the fading day. She loved this hour—the in-between time, where nothing demanded decisions and even her questions seemed to hush.
She watched the lights begin to shimmer on the riverboats and in the windows of apartments across the water. Her thoughts drifted to Henry. To his halting French and kind eyes. To the gentle way he looked at the Mona Lisa, as if he were asking for answers, too.
Could someone like him—untethered, searching—understand the tangle she carried inside? The weight of a life half-lived to please others, the pull of something greater that she couldn’t quite name? She didn’t know. But when he asked if he could return tomorrow, a warmth had stirred in her chest she hadn’t felt in a long time. Not hope exactly. But the stirring before it.
She paused on the Pont des Arts, hands resting on the railing. The river flowed on, indifferent and eternal. And she whispered, not to anyone in particular, “Let this be something good.”
Henry – A Café Near Rue de Seine, Late Morning
Henry sat at a corner table, staring into a cup of coffee that had long since gone cold. He had barely touched his croissant, picking at the flaky edges without tasting a thing. The city buzzed around him—voices, bells, a Vespa whining down the street—but inside, he was somewhere else entirely.
He kept checking his watch, though he knew it was still early. What if she didn’t come? Or worse—what if she did, and things felt different? What if yesterday had been a trick of timing, of mood, of lighting in the museum?
He shook his head, embarrassed by his own thoughts. He was thirty-three, for God’s sake, not some nervous schoolboy. And yet, his pulse quickened every time he pictured her standing there again, sunlight in her hair, her sketchbook tucked beneath her arm like it belonged to her more than her own name.
He finished his coffee, stood too quickly, then sat back down again. Five more minutes, he told himself. Then he’d head toward the Louvre.
Claire – Her Small Apartment in Montmartre, Midday
Claire stood before the mirror, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear for the third time. She told herself it didn’t matter what she wore, that it wasn’t a date, that nothing had been promised but a shared hour in front of a painting. Still, she changed her scarf three times before choosing the blue one—subtle, but a color that made her eyes feel more awake.
She wasn’t sure why she felt nervous. She had spoken to men before. Met them in cafés, danced with them at parties. But there was something different about this American with soft eyes and awkward French. Something about the way he hadn’t tried to charm her—but had anyway.
She pulled her sketchbook from the shelf and held it close. It felt like a shield and a bridge all at once.
As she stepped into the hallway, locking the door behind her, her heart tapped a little quicker in her chest. She wasn’t entirely sure if it was fear, excitement, or something more subtle. But she knew she wanted to see him again. And that alone was enough to make the air feel charged.
The Louvre – Early Afternoon
The Mona Lisa was there, as she always was—serene, inscrutable, untouched by time. But Claire was not alone before her this time. Not for long.
Henry arrived first. He stood at a respectful distance, trying not to check over his shoulder every few seconds, trying not to hope too hard. He didn’t know how long he waited—it could’ve been two minutes or twenty—but then she appeared, slipping through the quiet crowd like a note in a familiar melody.
She wore the blue scarf.
“Bonjour,” she said softly, a little breathless from her walk. Her eyes met his, steady and kind.
He exhaled without realizing he’d been holding his breath. “Bonjour,” he echoed, his French still clumsy but steadier this time.
For a moment, they both looked at the painting, allowing its calm to settle between them. Then Claire spoke.
“Did you get lost again?” she asked, a half-smile teasing her lips.
He grinned. “Only for a little while. Then I remembered I had somewhere to be.”
“That’s progress.”
They stood shoulder to shoulder now, close enough that their sleeves brushed. Claire opened her sketchbook, but instead of drawing, she turned a few pages back and showed him a rough pencil sketch—a quiet profile of the Mona Lisa, yes, but next to it… a figure, standing behind her. A man, just barely rendered, with uncertainty in his eyes.
Henry blinked, surprised.
“You drew me?”
“I draw things that make me feel something,” she said simply. “And yesterday, I wasn’t just looking at a painting.”
Henry swallowed, his voice gentler now. “I don’t know what this is,” he said. “But I’m glad I came back.”
Claire nodded, folding her sketchbook closed. “Me too.”
They stood a little longer in silence, but it was no longer tentative. It was a quiet shared between two people beginning to recognize each other in the hush.
“I know a place,” Claire said after a moment. “By the river. It’s quieter than here. We could sit. Talk. Or just listen to the water.”
Henry looked at her, sunlight catching the edges of her hair. “Lead the way.”
And with that, they stepped away from the painting and into the unfolding unknown—two souls adrift, beginning to float in the same direction.
Along the Seine – Late Afternoon
They walked side by side beneath an open sky, the Louvre’s great stone walls falling behind them, the rhythm of their footsteps gradually syncing to the slow pulse of the city. Neither felt the need to fill the space with talk. Words would come. For now, there was Paris—the stretch of river shining with late sun, the rustle of plane trees, the distant hum of traffic softened by centuries of stone.
Claire led him down a quiet stairway to the lower quay, a favorite spot of hers, hidden from the noise above. A few benches lined the walkway, weathered and uneven, and they chose one beneath a willow that trailed its fingers into the water.
For a while, they simply sat. Watching.
Across the river, the dome of the Institut de France gleamed faintly. A boat passed, slow and low in the water, stirring reflections into ripples. Nearby, an elderly man fed pigeons, humming a tune neither of them could name.
Claire finally spoke. “I come here when I don’t know what to do.”
Henry glanced at her, waiting.
She pulled her knees up slightly, resting her sketchbook against them. “I’ve never wanted the life they’ve planned for me. Marriage, children, a predictable apartment in a predictable arrondissement. It’s not that I don’t want love or home. I just… want to choose it.”
Henry nodded, slowly. “I understand that more than I wish I did.”
Claire turned to him. “And you? Why did you really come to Paris?”
He looked down at his hands, then back out over the river. “Because everything I was supposed to be doing back home stopped making sense. I had a job. A future, I guess. But I kept waking up feeling like I was living someone else’s life.”
He smiled faintly. “I don’t have a grand plan. Just a notebook, a rented room, and a few more days on my visa.”
Claire looked at him then, her expression unreadable but soft. “Maybe that’s enough.”
Their eyes met—quiet, searching, and unguarded now. The kind of gaze that lets a little bit of one soul touch another.
A breeze picked up from the water, and Claire leaned into it, letting her hair fall across her cheek. “Tell me something,” she said. “Something real. No rehearsed answers.”
Henry hesitated, then answered simply: “I was afraid you wouldn’t come today. And that surprised me—how much I wanted you to.”
Claire looked away, toward the glittering current, her voice low. “I almost didn’t. Which is how I knew I had to.”
The willow leaves swayed above them, casting dappled shadows across the stones. Claire drew idle shapes on the cover of her sketchbook with her fingertip. Henry watched the water, his thoughts as fluid and ungraspable as the current. Neither spoke, but there was no need. The quiet between them was no longer uncertain—it was rich, full, blooming.
Somewhere behind them, a bell chimed the hour. Claire tilted her head toward the sound.
“Would you like a coffee?” she asked, glancing at him sideways. “Or perhaps something stronger?”
He smiled. “Either sounds perfect. As long as it’s with you.”
They rose slowly, almost reluctant to disturb the moment, but as they began walking up the stone steps toward the street, it was as if the whole city had changed shade. Paris had deepened into its evening colors—gold flickering on windows, lilac shadows pooling beneath balconies, laughter echoing faintly from somewhere around the corner.
They found a small café with iron chairs and soft lantern light just off the Rue de l’Université. The kind of place where time seemed to run differently, where conversations lingered and glances stretched long. Claire ordered a café au lait, Henry a bière blonde. The drinks came quickly, along with a basket of olives and warm bread.
They talked. About music, and books, and the strange comfort of being with someone who didn’t expect anything but presence. Claire told him about her childhood trips to Normandy, how she once believed the sea could answer her questions. Henry told her how his brother used to play Chopin on rainy days and how, since he died, Henry hadn’t been able to listen without crying.
She touched his hand, gently, just for a second. “I think your brother would be glad you’re here,” she said.
And when they left the café, it was natural—inevitable—that their fingers found each other. No dramatic gesture, no hesitance. Just the easy intertwining of hands as they wandered along the cobblestones, past shuttered shops and glowing windows, toward the open sweep of the Pont Neuf.
Paris shimmered around them. A man played violin on the bridge. A breeze carried the scent of lilacs and smoke. Claire leaned her head slightly toward Henry’s shoulder.
They didn’t kiss—not yet. But something had begun. Something tender, and trembling, and true.
Claire’s Apartment – That Night
Claire stood at her window, lights off, watching the city in hush. The scarf he’d admired still hung around her neck. She touched it absently, her mind a swirl of wonder and worry.
She hadn’t planned for someone like Henry. She hadn’t planned for anyone right now. Her life was complicated enough—between her studies, her family’s looming expectations, and the letter she hadn’t yet dared to answer. A letter from Pierre.
Pierre. The name alone stirred a dull ache. He’d been away for months now, writing from Algeria, vague promises and uncertain affections. They had never been truly together, but her mother still spoke of him as if he were already her husband.
Claire exhaled and set her sketchbook on the table. She turned the pages slowly, then paused. The drawing she’d made of Henry—still unfinished, pencil lines soft. She closed it gently, almost reverently.
Whatever this was, it wasn’t simple.
Henry’s Room – A Rented Flat on Rue Jacob
Henry sat on the edge of the bed, writing. The notebook was already half-full of sketches, observations, and aimless thoughts, but tonight the words came quickly, as if they were trying to keep up with his heartbeat.
He wrote about her hands. Her voice. The way she made silence feel like music.
And then he stopped.
He’d meant to leave Paris in three days. He hadn’t told her that. He hadn’t told himself what came next.
His job in New York had not exactly fired him, but the invitation to return was growing colder by the week. And his bank account wasn’t infinite.
He rubbed his temples. It had been just one afternoon, one evening. And yet it felt like the beginning of something he’d always believed in, but never quite found.
So what now?
He closed the notebook and lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. He didn’t want to leave. Not now. But staying might mean giving up everything else he thought he was supposed to return to.
And he wasn’t sure which part of himself he trusted more—the wanderer… or the man falling in love.
The Next Afternoon – Jardin du Luxembourg
They met among the statues and sycamores, in the soft green heart of the city. The garden paths were swept clean, the fountains murmuring their endless lullaby. Claire arrived first, sitting on one of the green chairs with her legs crossed at the ankle, sketchbook balanced delicately on her knee.
Henry spotted her from across the gravel and felt the same jolt in his chest he’d felt when they’d first met. Only now it was warmer. More dangerous.
She smiled when she saw him, rising lightly to greet him. “I brought you a pencil,” she said, holding it out as if offering a small olive branch. “In case you want to sketch your way through another afternoon.”
He took it with a chuckle. “You trust me with art?”
“I trust you with a pencil,” she replied, sitting back down. “For now.”
They talked—about the sculptures, the children pushing toy boats in the fountain, the pastries in the little stand nearby. But they didn’t talk about tomorrow. They didn’t ask what came next. They didn’t speak of the letter in Claire’s coat pocket, or the train ticket Henry had folded into his passport.
The silence between words was not heavy, but it wasn’t weightless either. It hummed, low and persistent, like a string plucked once and still vibrating.
At one point, their hands touched again. Not on purpose, not quite. But neither pulled away.
Claire laughed at something he said about the pigeons being more sophisticated than most people back home, and he felt, for a brief moment, like he belonged entirely to this place. To her. But the feeling came with a flicker of fear—because if he belonged here, what did that mean for everything else?
She looked at him just then, as if she sensed the shadow behind his eyes.
“What?” she asked softly.
He shook his head. “Nothing,” he said, too quickly. “Just… this is nice. That’s all.”
Claire nodded, the smile staying on her lips, but dimmed at the corners. “It is.”
They sat a while longer, pretending neither of them had anything to say. That this afternoon could stretch forever. That spring would wait for them.
But both knew—even as they watched the petals drift down from the chestnut trees—that time was quietly rearranging the days behind their backs.
That Evening – On the Banks of the Seine, Near Pont Alexandre III
The sky was lavender now, the sun a soft smear on the horizon. Lamps flickered to life along the river, casting golden halos that danced across the water. Claire and Henry walked slowly, their shoulders brushing now and then, the quiet between them different from before. Heavier.
Henry paused near the ornate balustrade of the bridge and looked out over the water. Claire followed his gaze, but her fingers gripped the railing, tense.
“Claire,” he said quietly. “There’s something I haven’t told you.”
She didn’t turn toward him, but her breath caught just slightly. “Then maybe I should tell you something first.”
Silence, thick and waiting.
She began. “There’s someone. Or… there was someone. We weren’t truly together, but our families—” she hesitated, searching for the right words— “They imagine a future for us. I’ve tried to stay separate from it, but the expectations linger. Like fog.” She turned toward him then. “And yesterday, a letter came. He wants to return to Paris. To see what we might be.”
Henry’s jaw tightened. He nodded slowly, taking that in. “I appreciate you telling me.”
Claire stepped closer, her voice lower. “I needed to say it. Because this—what’s happened between us—it feels real. But I didn’t want to build it on something false.”
He looked at her, eyes full of quiet turmoil. “I have something too.”
She waited.
“I was supposed to leave tomorrow. That was the plan when I came here. Just a month to clear my head. I have a return ticket in my bag, tucked next to a notebook full of pages about you.” He gave a half-laugh, one without joy. “I don’t want to leave. But I also don’t know how to stay. My life in New York… it’s a mess, but it’s still mine.”
Claire closed her eyes, as if bracing against the wind. “So we’re two people with separate paths… who happened to collide.”
He nodded. “That’s what it feels like.”
And then she looked at him, tears catching the soft light. “But maybe the collision wasn’t an accident.”
Henry reached for her hand. “I don’t have all the answers. I don’t even know what happens next. But I know I haven’t felt this… seen… in a very long time.”
A tear slipped down her cheek. “Neither have I.”
He reached out, gently brushing it away with his thumb.
Claire whispered, “What if we stop thinking in terms of plans and tickets and letters… just for tonight?”
Henry’s voice cracked slightly. “Just tonight?”
Claire nodded. “Let’s give our hearts the space to speak before the world interrupts.”
And under the gilded arch of Pont Alexandre III, where the air shimmered with history and hope, he leaned in, slowly—so slowly—and kissed her. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t urgent. It was the kind of kiss that carried ache and honesty, the kind that lingered long after lips parted.
When they pulled away, Claire rested her forehead against his.
“Whatever happens,” she whispered, “this was real.”
And he answered, “It still is.”
Claire
Claire grew up in the 7th arrondissement, a neighborhood of elegance and control. Her mother wore pearls at breakfast and spoke more of reputations than feelings. Her father had passed when Claire was thirteen—quietly, suddenly—leaving behind a library of art books and the scent of pipe smoke that lingered in the halls for years.
She learned early how to be the daughter her mother needed—graceful, polite, composed. But art was where she breathed. At night, she sketched by candlelight, copying Modigliani and Toulouse-Lautrec from her father’s old volumes, longing to draw something that wasn’t imitation. She was accepted into the École des Beaux-Arts, but her mother never bragged about it the way she did when Pierre—a neighbor’s son turned colonial officer—wrote letters from abroad.
Claire didn’t love Pierre. But she understood what he represented: safety, approval, a life she could wear like a well-pressed dress. Until Henry, no one had asked her what she wanted for herself.
And that question—unspoken but alive in his presence—was the one that now kept her up at night.
Henry
Henry Whitmore was raised in a townhouse on the Upper West Side, all dark wood and stiff silences. His father was a banker who saw art as a pastime for women and failures. His mother was lovely but absent, retreating more each year behind doors and polite smiles. It was Henry’s older brother, James, who gave him warmth—who taught him how to play chess, how to listen to jazz, how to read poetry without apology.
James died suddenly—a heart attack at thirty-nine. It unmoored Henry. At the funeral, he realized he didn’t recognize most of the people in his life. His fiancée left soon after. She said he wasn’t the same. She was right.
So he came to Paris. Not to run, exactly. But to remember how to feel.
He hadn’t expected Claire. But something about her made him believe that maybe he hadn’t lost the better parts of himself after all.
Back at the Bridge – Later That Night
They stood close, their kiss fading into a silence that pulsed with emotion. Neither wanted to break it, but eventually, Claire whispered, “Walk me home?”
Henry nodded. They crossed the bridge in soft steps, hands intertwined, not speaking. The city glowed gently around them, holding their secret.
At her door, she paused.
“I don’t know what happens next,” she said, voice barely audible. “But I want to know you. Even if it hurts.”
He touched her cheek. “I’m already glad I knew you. Even if this ends tomorrow.”
They didn’t kiss again. They didn’t need to.
Two Days Later – Morning Light Through the Window
Claire stood at her easel, but she hadn’t touched the canvas in an hour. Her brush hovered, uncertain, above a half-formed scene—a woman on a bridge, staring into water that refused to reflect her.
The last two days had passed in a dream. She and Henry had walked, talked, shared small meals and quieter moments, always careful not to speak of after. They had not said goodbye, but neither had they spoken of staying.
Now, the morning light felt cruel. Clear. Unforgiving.
A knock at the door startled her.
When she opened it, her mother stood in the hallway, pressed and composed. In her gloved hands, she held an envelope.
“A letter,” her mother said. “From Pierre.”
Claire hesitated, but took it.
“He arrives tomorrow,” her mother said. “And expects to see you. I hope you’ll remember the importance of appearances.”
Claire said nothing. Her mother, used to that silence, simply nodded and left.
She held the letter but didn’t open it. Not yet. Not until she knew what to do with it.
Meanwhile – Henry’s Room, Rue Jacob
Henry was packing.
Not because he wanted to. Because he didn’t know what else to do.
The decision had loomed long enough. His return flight was that afternoon. He had said nothing to Claire—not out of cruelty, but because every time he looked at her, he felt hope pull him away from logic.
And yet… staying wasn’t simple. He had no job here. No place. No plan. Was it fair to ask her to gamble everything on a man with a suitcase and good intentions?
He zipped the bag shut.
Then came the knock.
He opened the door to find Marcel, the older man who ran the pension, holding a telegram.
“Arrived just now,” Marcel said. “Urgent.”
Henry thanked him and unfolded the thin paper. He stared at it for a long time.
The message was brief. Job offer withdrawn. Position filled. Regretfully.
Everything he thought he might return to—gone.
He sank into the chair by the window and laughed. Not from joy, not from despair—just the stunned release of someone who had been holding too many possibilities for too long.
Now, there was only one.
Later That Day – The Café Where It All Began
Claire sat at the same table where Henry had waited with his cold coffee just days before. Her scarf—the scarf—was looped around her neck. Her fingers tapped against a porcelain cup, untouched.
And then—he arrived.
No suitcase. No expression of farewell.
Just Henry, slightly breathless, looking at her like the only truth in the world.
She stood.
“You didn’t leave,” she said.
“No,” he replied. “I got a telegram. The job’s gone. Everything’s gone. Except you.”
Claire held up the letter from Pierre. “He’s coming tomorrow.”
Henry’s smile faded.
“I’m not going to see him,” she said.
Henry’s brow furrowed. “You’re not?”
“I want to build a life with someone who sees me—not someone who fits the mold my family made.”
She stepped closer. “I don’t care what comes next, Henry. I only care that we face it honestly.”
He took her hand. “Then let’s find out what that looks like.”
She nodded, the tears falling freely now. “Together?”
“Together.”
Later That Week
They spent the next days building something delicate and real. Sketches shared. Meals cooked. Streets wandered with laughter between them.
But one morning, Claire found Henry sitting quietly on a bench near the river, staring at another telegram.
She read it in his eyes before he spoke.
“My brother left me something I didn’t know about. A property. In Provence.”
Claire blinked. “A house?”
“A small one. Overgrown. Forgotten.” He looked at her. “But maybe… maybe a beginning.”
She smiled through her surprise. “So what now?”
He reached for her hand. “We build. Not the life others planned. The one we choose.”
And in that quiet, riverside morning, with the city stirring around them, Claire realized something:
Love didn’t rescue you from the world. It offered you a place within it.
A home—not made of stone, but of promises kept.
The Space Between Brushstrokes
Bee Gee's Screed...
