The hospital released Elias into a Saint-Malo dawn,
the sky a fragile canvas streaked with gold and gray,
the sea's whisper a soft refrain beneath his faltering steps.
His lungs ached, each breath a threadbare veil,
the taste of medicine lingering on his tongue like a bitter promise.
Celeste walked beside him, her arm a steady anchor,
her smock still bearing the ghosts of paint—
turpentine's sharp bite mingling with the salt air.
In his hand, the notebook pressed against his palm,
its pages a sanctuary of their shared night,
and he clung to the dream she'd sparked.
They sat on a bench overlooking the harbor,
the wood rough against his back,
the gulls' cries weaving through the morning hum.
"Paris," she said,
her voice a melody lifting the fog,
"we could go there—galleries, cafés, a life beyond this."
Her eyes sparkled, reflecting the water's dance,
and she sketched on a scrap of paper—
a cityscape of arches and light,
her pencil tracing hope where his breath faltered.
He nodded, the vision warming his chest, and wrote in his notebook:
"In Parisian light, we'll weave our dreams,
a tapestry the tide cannot unravel."
The words were a prayer, a shield against the cold that crept closer.
Her hand found his, warm against his chilled skin,
and she leaned close,
her hair brushing his cheek with a scent of paint and sea.
"We'll sell my paintings, your poems," she murmured,
"and leave this shore behind."
He smiled, the effort a strain,
and imagined cobblestone streets,
the clink of coffee cups,
her laughter echoing in a gallery.
But the sketch trembled in her grip,
the cliff's shadow creeping into the margins,
and he wondered if her dreams hid a darker thread.
"What's in Paris for us?" he asked, his voice a whisper.
She paused, her gaze drifting to the horizon.
"A new beginning," she said,
but her tone faltered, a crack in the melody.
She traced the 1975 date on the sketch, her finger lingering.
"Or a place to face what I've run from."
The sea's roar swelled,
a reminder of the figure on the cliff,
and Elias's heart quickened.
Was Paris a refuge or a reckoning?
The hum from her lips—soft, haunting—rose again,
threading through the gulls' cries,
and he saw it:
the silhouette, faint against the morning mist,
swaying as if calling her name.
He coughed,
the blood a shadow he hid,
and she turned,
her eyes wide with a flicker of fear—
or was it recognition?
"You can't hide it," she whispered,
her hand tightening on his,
"but we'll fight it together."
He nodded,
the notebook slipping to his lap,
and they sat in silence,
the harbor's light a fragile promise.
The sketch lay between them,
its lines a bridge to a past she wouldn't name,
and he wrote again:
"Her dreams are light, but the tide pulls her shadow."
The sea whispered, its voice a riddle,
and Elias wondered if their Parisian dream
would fade before it could bloom.
The bench creaked as they rose,
the paper crumpling in her pocket,
and they walked toward the town,
the cliff's silhouette a constant thread in his mind.
The hum lingered,
a melody tied to the figure,
and he felt the weight of a mystery—
hers, his, or the sea's—
waiting to unravel in the light they chased.