Chapter 1
Sky
Today
Every time autumn blankets Paris with its vibrant colors, the nights turn cool, and the mornings are shrouded in mist, I love coming here to Montmartre. Today, I stroll along the cobbled alley with picturesque houses, accompanied by Aurora. I unbutton the top button of my oversized cropped coat and take a sip of my steaming to-go hot chocolate.
It tastes like comfort, like a warm fireplace and long, starry nights. It tastes like winter. And a little bit like home. Wistfully, I exhale against the tightness that inevitably settles over my chest.
"So when's the big day?" I ask, trying to distract myself.
Aurora smiles, her cheeks turning rosy. "We're getting married in mid-May at home in Tuscany. Will you come?"
I turn to her, seeing the sparkle in her eyes and the smile on her lips. Inevitably, I find myself grinning too. "Nothing will keep me away."
Immediately, I picture Aurora's wedding dress, simple, with delicate lace. It could have the shape of flowers, maybe with a pearl at the center of each blossom.
"We're inviting the whole village," she says, linking her arm with mine and resting her head on my shoulder. "Who knows, maybe you'll meet someone?"
That must never happen. "We'll see," I reply evasively, letting my gaze wander as we continue strolling along the alley.
The wild ivy cascading down the stone facade of the old building across the street shines in a deep red. The sky carries that dark navy blue, and the way the tree branches sway in the wind is full of gentleness. The world flows, and the movements blend harmoniously into a picture that clears my thoughts with its beauty. The wind blows my reddish curls into my face, shimmering in the mild autumn sunlight. I sigh deeply.
"Somewhere out there, someone is waiting for you too," Aurora's voice is gentle, almost cautious.
Not for the first time, she's trying to convince me of that. Because she doesn't know that it's impossible.
How can I let someone into my life when I have to hide so much about myself? Besides, thanks to my rose-tinted glasses, I wouldn't be able to distinguish right from wrong anymore.
It's just the way it is, and that's okay. I lack nothing, on the contrary, my life is full of abundance. My apartment in the 1st arrondissement is so spacious that I'll never be able to breathe all the air there. I volunteer as a dance teacher at the youth center and lead a free life.
Father has kept his word, and I fulfill my part of the agreement: no one knows who I really am. Not even Aurora.
"Sky?" My best friend nudges me from the side. "Everything okay?"
I quickly lift the corners of my mouth. "I'm enjoying this beautiful autumn day," I reply and gaze around so enchanted, as if I could hardly resist the charm of the artist's quarter.
"Well, I really have to go now." She bites her lower lip. "Maxime is probably waiting for me at the flower market."
"And love shouldn't be kept waiting." I hug my friend goodbye.
I watch her with a smile as she hops down the cobbled alley toward the Métro. Her long dark hair with its light tips sways in rhythm. Now she turns around and waves at me with a broad smile.
Seeing her so happy makes me happy too. I take the last sip of my now lukewarm chocolate and ponder how to spend the rest of the morning.
Last week, I came across an article about a new studio. The artist creates sculptures from fabrics.
Where was it again? I furrow my brow as I take my phone out of the crossbody bag. Didn't I bookmark it in my browser?
I open the app, and a message on the home screen catches my eye.
Mystery of tragic misfortune—fashion pope Gustav Blohm on the verge of death?
All of a sudden, I feel like an ice sculpture.
Immobile. Bitterly cold. Fragile.
As if paralyzed, I stare at the headline. Read it once, twice, three times.
