Chapter 1 — The Season of Arrival
Paris in March was a painting smudged by rain. The river ran heavy and grey, the kind of grey that reflected more secrets than light.
Anna Delcourt stood at the window of the gallery, the hum of neon behind her, watching reflections bend across the glass. She had been waiting for Julien to return from Florence for three days, though he’d only been gone for two. Love stretches time, she thought — especially when it begins to doubt.
When Julien finally appeared, the air shifted. He entered like someone bringing summer into a cold room.
He carried with him a worn leather notebook and the smell of airports — stale perfume, jet fuel, and distance.
Anna didn’t ask about his trip. She had learned that lovers who write for a living prefer the silence between questions.
He kissed her forehead instead of her mouth.
That night, they ate in the kitchen, between wine bottles and unpaid bills. Julien spoke of Florence, of old streets and bright churches, of an exhibition he’d been researching for his new book.
“There was a fresco,” he said, eyes half-lit. “Two figures looking at each other through time. The painter called it La Fidélité Retardée — Delayed Faithfulness.”
Anna smiled faintly. “Strange name for love.”
“It’s the truest one,” he replied, “because even loyalty hesitates.”
Something about the sentence stayed in her throat all night.
Later, in bed, while Julien’s breathing slowed beside her, Anna opened his notebook. She had never done this before — never needed to. But there, between sketches and quotes, she saw a name written over and over:
Léa.
