(Yvette POV)
Mornings in Paris had a rhythm I was finally learning how to follow.
Not the hurried rush of my old life, where every step felt like it was borrowed time, but something steadier—measured by the scrape of chairs on stone sidewalks, the clatter of cups in cafés, the way the city stretched awake instead of jolting upright.
I crossed the courtyard of the institute with my bag tucked under my arm, the scent of bread already lingering in the air from the bakery classrooms. Butter, yeast, sugar—comforting, grounding. Familiar.
For the first time in a long while, I felt like I belonged somewhere that wasn't defined by inheritance or obligation.
"Yvette!"
I turned just in time to see Élise jogging toward me, her scarf half-falling off her shoulder, curls escaping her loose bun. She looked like she always did—effortlessly alive, as if the city had shaped her to match its pulse.
