The Journal and the Stranger
Amelia Hartley hated long flights. But the moment her boots touched the cobblestone platform of the Tours train station, something inside her settled. The sky was a soft shade of lavender, the early morning clouds drifting lazily overhead like faded brushstrokes. She took a deep breath, the air tinged with the crisp scent of spring and distant rain.
She clutched the brown leather journal tighter. It had belonged to her grandmother, Eleanor Hartley—a woman of quiet grace and hidden depths. Eleanor had passed away two months ago, and among the belongings left behind was the journal—filled with delicate handwriting, pressed rose petals, and the single photo that had led Amelia here.
The photograph was old, maybe from the 1940s. A young man, no older than twenty-five, stood with his head slightly turned, gazing at the camera with an intensity that unsettled her. He wore a soldier's uniform, worn at the edges, and held a single rose in one hand. The message on the back had sent a shiver down her spine.
"Come back to me—always. C.L."
Amelia had never heard her grandmother mention anyone with those initials. There was no "C.L." in the family tree, no records, no letters. But the journal told a different story—pages upon pages of poetic entries about a hidden love, a place called La Maison de la Rose, and a promise never fulfilled.
And so, against the steady protests of practicality, Amelia had booked a ticket to France.
A soft chime echoed through the station as the crowd around her dispersed. She pulled her coat tighter against the breeze and stepped out onto the narrow street. According to the directions she had painstakingly translated from the back of the journal, the village of Val-Chéri was a twenty-minute drive from Tours. She turned toward the taxi stand—
—and collided with someone.
Her satchel tumbled to the ground, scattering a few folded maps and the precious journal. She dropped to her knees, murmuring an apology, only to find a pair of hands helping her gather her things.
"I'm terribly sorry," she said, brushing a lock of chestnut hair from her eyes. "That was completely my fault—"
"No harm done," came the reply, in fluent but softly accented English. "Let me help."
She looked up.
The man crouching beside her had a calm, kind face. He wore a dark wool coat and a slate-grey scarf. His eyes—an unusual shade of stormy blue—met hers, and for a moment, time suspended. Something flickered in her chest. Recognition? No. That was impossible.
He handed her the journal, pausing for a second longer than necessary. "This is very old," he said, almost reverently.
"It was my grandmother's."
He nodded thoughtfully. "She must have been a romantic."
"She was," Amelia replied, her voice softening. "She believed in the kind of love you only read about in books."
The man smiled faintly. "Those are the only kinds worth chasing."
Amelia blinked. There was something oddly familiar about the way he said it—like she'd heard those exact words before. Maybe in a dream.
"Thank you," she said quickly, collecting her things.
"You're not from around here," he said, rising to his feet.
"Is it that obvious?"
He laughed. "Only to someone who's been here too long."
There was a pause.
"Amelia," she offered, unsure why she felt the need to share her name.
"Lucien," he said. "Lucien Lafleur."
Lafleur. The name echoed somewhere in her mind. She shook it off.
"Do you happen to know a place called La Maison de la Rose?" she asked, hoping it wasn't too strange a question for a stranger.
Lucien's expression changed—just slightly. A flicker of something unreadable passed through his eyes.
"I do," he said after a moment. "It's an old estate near Val-Chéri. Abandoned, mostly. Locals think it's haunted."
Her heart quickened. "Do you know how I can get there?"
Lucien tilted his head. "You came all this way for a haunted house?"
"I came for a memory," she said. "Maybe even a truth."
He studied her for a moment, then gave a slow nod. "I can take you. I was heading that way."
Amelia hesitated, just briefly, before following him. Something about him felt… right. Not safe, necessarily, but familiar. Like stepping into a story already halfway told.
As they walked toward his car, the wind stirred gently through the streets. Overhead, the clouds began to part. A faint scent of roses danced in the breeze—though there were no flowers in sight.
And somewhere deep in Amelia's chest, a sense of déjà vu bloomed like a forgotten petal opening to the sun.The drive to Val-Chéri wound through rolling hills and sleepy vineyards, the kind of landscape that made Amelia feel like she had stepped into a painting. The air was cleaner here, filled with the earthy scent of tilled soil and rain-soaked leaves. Lucien drove in silence for the most part, classical music playing softly from the car speakers.
Amelia kept stealing glances at him when she thought he wasn't looking. There was something strange about the way he moved—measured, graceful, as if he didn't quite belong in the modern world. Like a misplaced character from another era. His clothes were simple and elegant, his watch was vintage, and his hands bore calluses not from typing but from something older—manual, almost artistic.
You said the house is haunted," Amelia said, breaking the silence. "Do you believe that?"
Lucien smiled faintly. "Not by ghosts in white sheets. But some places remember love. And loss. Those things don't always stay buried."
She glanced down at the journal in her lap. The corners were curled, the binding fragile. She hadn't read every page yet—some of the entries were written in code, or perhaps metaphor. But there was one that stood out, dated July 12, 1944:
"He returns to me under the shadow of night. I leave the rose by the west window as always. It is how he finds me. How he remembers."
Amelia had no idea who "he" was. But she was starting to wonder if Lucien might know more than he let on.
They turned off the main road onto a gravel path lined with sycamore trees. The branches formed an arch overhead, their leaves trembling in the breeze. And then, through a break in the foliage, Amelia saw it.
La Maison de la Rose.
It was more magnificent than she had imagined—and more tragic. Vines curled around crumbling stone walls, and shattered windows gazed blankly at the overgrown garden below. The iron gate was rusted shut, but Lucien pulled it open with ease, as if he had done it a hundred times.
"You've been here before," she said quietly.
Lucien nodded. "My grandfather lived nearby. I used to explore these grounds as a boy."
The inside of the manor was a mix of ruin and forgotten elegance. A grand staircase curved toward the second floor, its bannister carved with rose motifs. Faded wallpaper peeled from the walls, but the scent of roses lingered faintly—impossibly.
Amelia stepped carefully through the main hall, past a cracked mirror and a dust-covered piano. She felt like she was walking through a dream.
In a small room to the right of the foyer, she found it—the west-facing window. The ledge was chipped, but there, nestled in the corner, lay a single dried rose. Amelia's breath caught.
Lucien stood behind her. "The villagers say it always reappears. No matter who takes it or how many years pass."
"Has anyone tried to find out why?"
"They stop asking after a while," he said softly. "Or maybe they're afraid of the answer."
Amelia knelt beside the window and opened her grandmother's journal to the July 12th entry. The handwriting here was different—shakier, almost frantic. She ran her fingers over the ink, and suddenly the air shifted.
She heard something.
A whisper. So faint, it could've been the wind.
"Claire…"
Amelia froze. "Did you hear that?"
Lucien looked at her, eyes narrowed. "What did you hear?"
"A voice. It said… Claire."
Lucien turned away slightly, and she could've sworn his hands trembled. "Claire Lafleur," he said, his voice distant. "That was her name. The woman who lived here during the war."
Amelia's pulse quickened. "Lafleur?"
"Yes," he said. "My great-aunt."
She stared at him in disbelief. "Your great-aunt was Claire Lafleur?"
Lucien gave a slow, almost reluctant nod.
The initials. C.L.
Claire Lafleur.
And suddenly, the man in the photograph wasn't just a nameless soldier. He was someone Claire had loved—someone she'd waited for in this house. Someone who never returned.
Or had he?
Amelia's thoughts reeled. Could her grandmother Eleanor have been connected to Claire? Was it possible their lives had intersected in this place, drawn together by the same man?
She looked at Lucien. His eyes—those stormy, searching eyes—felt eerily familiar.
Too familiar.
"Lucien," she whispered. "Why do I feel like I've met you before?"
Lucien looked away, jaw tight. "Because some stories," he said, "never truly end. They just… wait to begin again."
And with that, he turned and walked deeper into the manor, leaving Amelia standing at the window, a rose in her hand and the feeling that she had just reopened a door not only to the past—but to something far older, and far more eternal.