Midnight in Montmartre

s, 3

n slicked the cobblestones. A gust of wind carried a scrap of sheet music to his feet-Clair de Lune, the very piece his ex had played

ce, he to

ter, Mathieu

sen

onto the worn Persian rug. "Merde," he muttered, shaking out his coat. The storm had come out

stacks, wielding a towel like a sword. She had ink smudged on

blinke

st, he'd forgotten how green th

ain outside Shakespeare and Company, her throwing his annotated copy of The Sun Als

owned t

st. "Clean up your mess, Durand

pite himself. "Still dramatic,

." She crossed her ar

e r

aga

t a decade collecting stories of Paris's whispers-the way it nudged lovers towar

om the back room.

he's been knocking over

cidental Time Travel" section and a precarious tower of Proust. A f

Léa said dryly.

lim volume half-hidden under the shelf-The Atlas of Forgotte

nt ver

in, in familiar hand

thundered.

ned. "Di

he book. Her

y writing," s

ered. Somewhere in the s

ur Ea

helving when she

poems, on a slip of paper yellowed with age:

bookstore's past. Now, watching Mathieu's throat work

ssible," he s

d, batting at

he book-just as t

nst the windows sounded like stat

ld smell his cologne, the same citrus-an

that?" h

charged as the moment b

ound of a violin playing Clair de L

d and bright. "It's

Reve

in the back room, tradin

dreaming of one. The morning Mathieu woke with a melod

what?" Léa traced the r

Mathieu leaned forward. "And I

The rai

rite ours," L

treet musician packed up his violin. And if the next breeze carried

Paris, whisper