Élise moved through her duties with a distracted air. Would Luc come? His pattern had been established over three weekdays, but the weekend was an unknown. The library felt incomplete without his brooding presence at the central table, a void where a storm should be.
The morning passed with no sign of him. A group of Italian architecture students filled the space with whispered excitement, their professor pointing out the details of the building itself. Élise assisted them, her answers automatic. Her attention was divided, her ears straining for the specific sound of the door that signaled his arrival.
By three o'clock, the students had left, and a deflated acceptance settled over her. He wasn't coming. His world, it seemed, did not include Saturdays at the library. The thought was a dull ache. The bridge they had built yesterday felt suddenly fragile, a structure that only existed on weekdays from two to five.
She was reshelving a collection of essays on Montmartre when the bell jingled. She didn't look up, assuming it was another tourist.
But then the air changed. The subtle shift in pressure, the way the ambient quiet seemed to deepen and focus. Her heart gave a single, hard thud against her ribs. She turned.
It was him.
But it wasn't the Luc she knew. This Luc looked… weathered. There were dark shadows under his eyes, and his usual sharp intensity was blurred at the edges, replaced by a weary restlessness. He wore the same leather jacket, but it seemed to hang on him differently. He didn't have his notebook or his books. His hands were shoved into his pockets.
He scanned the room, his gaze landing on her. He didn't nod. He just looked at her, a long, silent look that felt like a question.
Monsieur Deschamps, from his perch by the new arrivals shelf, observed the exchange with a quiet, bird-like curiosity.
Luc walked towards her, his steps slower than usual. He stopped a few feet away, the canyon of the history aisle between them.
"You're here on a Saturday," he said. It wasn't an accusation, but a statement of surprise, as if he'd found a rare artifact in an unexpected place.
"It's my job," she said softly. "I work most Saturdays."
He absorbed this, nodding slowly. "I couldn't work," he said, his voice rough. "The words… they wouldn't come. The walls of my apartment were closing in."
He looked around the library, a hungry look in his eyes. "I thought this… this silence might help."
Élise understood. The library wasn't just a workplace for her; it was a balm. And he, it seemed, had come seeking the same remedy.
"You don't have your notebook," she observed.
"A day off from the battle," he replied with a wry twist of his lips that didn't quite reach his eyes. He glanced towards his usual table, but it was occupied by an elderly man reading a newspaper. "I think I'll just… browse."
He moved past her, deeper into the aisles. He didn't seem to be looking for anything in particular. He was just moving, absorbing the calm.
An hour later, Élise found him in the poetry section, not where Baudelaire resided, but in the quieter, more melancholic corner dedicated to Verlaine. He was standing, leaning against the shelves, reading a small, blue volume. He looked up as she approached, his expression less guarded than she had ever seen it.
"Verlaine," she said. "A good choice for a difficult day."
"He understood the chaos beneath the surface," Luc murmured, closing the book but keeping his finger in the page. "The 'long sobs of the violins of autumn.'" He quoted the line perfectly, his voice giving the words a new, raw weight.
He looked at her, a genuine, uncomplicated sadness in his eyes. "Some days, the past is louder than the present."
It was the most personal thing he had ever said to her. A crack in the wall, revealing the tumult within.
"Would a coffee help?" The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them, bold and impulsive. "After your shift, I mean. The café next door…"
She braced for a rejection, for him to retreat back into his shell.
But he didn't. He looked at her, truly looked at her, as if seeing a lifeline he hadn't known was there. The weariness in his face seemed to recede just a little.
"Yes," he said, the single word carrying a surprising weight of relief. "Yes, I think it would.”
Chapter 9:
The First Sip
The final hour of Élise’s shift passed with the agonizing slowness of a stalled pendulum. Every tick of the grand clock was a deliberate, drawn-out event. She was acutely aware of Luc’s presence, a quiet, still point in the moving tapestry of Saturday patrons. He had eventually taken a seat in a secluded armchair in the corner, the blue Verlaine volume still in his hands, though she wasn’t sure he was reading. He seemed to be simply existing within the library’s protective aura, waiting.
