A bell chimed overhead.
The air smelled like dust and paper and something faintly floral. Shelves stretched in tight rows, forcing strangers into polite collisions. The place felt lived in, just like my sister’s apartment. Loved.
I moved slowly, fingers drifting over spines, imagining Rose doing the same. Maybe on a rainy afternoon, coat damp, blonde hair curling around her temples as she wandered without urgency.
We both had the same unruly, blonde hair.
Did she come here alone?
Or with him?
The thought slid into my mind before I could stop it. Not sharp this time. Not accusatory.
Curious.
I found the shelf of English-language fiction and scanned titles until recognition hit. Three of the books sat on Rose’s bedside table back in the apartment. One still opened to where she’d left off.
She’d bought them here.
Something warm settled low in my chest. A strange intimacy in standing where she’d stood, choosing stories, carrying them home.
A man brushed past me, murmuring an apology in accented English as he maneuvered around a stack of books. His arm grazed mine in passing, warm through layers of fabric, and I looked up automatically.
He was handsome in an easy, unstudied way—dark hair, strong jaw, the kind of face that probably photographed well without trying. The sort of man who would make someone glance twice on the street.
I smiled politely and stepped aside to let him pass, then watched him disappear into another aisle.
Hank had been attractive, too. Clean-cut, steady, reassuringly put together. Women liked him. My parents adored him. Even my friends admitted he was a catch.
But he’d never made my pulse stumble. Never made my thoughts blur or my body react before my brain caught up. Being with him had felt … pleasant. Comfortable. Predictable.
Safe.
I’d always assumed that was what grown-up love looked like. That the weak-in-the-knees, can’t-think-straight kind of attraction belonged to movies and college hookups, not marriages or real life.
Still, somewhere deep down, I’d wanted it. A man whose presence alone shifted the air. Someone who made my stomach dip and my breath catch, who made desire feel inevitable instead of optional.
Someone who unsettled me in the best way.
I ran my fingers absently along the spines of the books, shaking off the thought.
Maybe Rose had found that here. Something—or someone—who made her feel more alive than the careful life waiting back home.
And maybe that was why Paris still felt charged with possibility, even wrapped in grief.
The city seemed to whisper that different choices were possible.
I wandered deeper into the shop, eventually finding a small table of plays and scripts. French and English editions mixed together.
The same play from the theater tickets sat stacked near the top.
Romantic, the cleaning woman had said.
I picked it up, flipping through highlighted passages someone had underlined in pencil. Lovers meeting in secret. Promises whispered in shadows. Choices between duty and want.
I swallowed.
Rose had sat in that dark theater watching this story unfold. Had she squeezed someone’s hand during the love scenes? Leaned closer when the characters kissed?
