Shards of Memory [English - Under Revision]

Chapter 37: Paris Nights

Skylane

Paris smelled like roasted chestnuts and rain-soaked pavement. The Seine shimmered like melted silver under the bridges, and the Eiffel Tower blinked its lights on cue, but none of it felt real.

What felt real was the weight of my schoolbag on my shoulder, the scarf looped around my neck that Kingsley insisted I keep, and the knot in my chest every time my thoughts drifted where they shouldn't.

I should be fine. I was in Paris, studying at an international school with kids from everywhere, living in an airy apartment with a view of slate rooftops. Kingsley had been nothing but steady—my anchor. I should be fine.

But I wasn't.

The metro was the worst. I'd squeeze into a car, strangers pressing too close, and my reflection in the smudged window would look back at me with tired eyes. I'd catch myself thinking, Would Blaise survive this? Or would he fight everyone for personal space? Then I'd shake my head, annoyed. Why did he have to haunt even train rides?

At school, French slang flew over my head. But even when I laughed, a part of me whispered, Blaise would have made fun of you for mispronouncing "pain au chocolat."

One afternoon, I sat hunched over my French homework at the dining table, mouthing verb conjugations. Kingsley leaned against the doorway, arms crossed.

"You're massacring the language," he said flatly.

I groaned. "Then help me, oh fluent one."

He dropped into the chair across from me, took the worksheet, and pointed at the sentence. "It's not je suis allé à la boulangeriee, it's boulangerie. One e."

"That's what I said."

"You added an extra syllable. Again. Say it slower."

I tried. He shook his head, smirking. "Still wrong."

"Ugh, I hate French."

"No, you don't," he said calmly. "You hate feeling like you're not perfect at it yet."

I blinked. He wasn't wrong.

When I didn't answer, he leaned back. "Relax, Sky. You'll get it. You always do."

It was simple encouragement, nothing more. But for some stupid reason, my chest tightened.

Another day, we went grocery shopping. I piled bread, fruit, and boxes of biscuits into the cart until it looked like I was feeding ten people.

Kingsley eyed the cart. "You planning to host a basketball team?"

"I get hungry, okay?"

He sighed, grabbed two bags at the checkout, and carried them easily while I staggered behind him with one.

"Why'd you take the heavy ones?" I panted.

"Because you'd drop them before we reached the metro," he said matter-of-factly. "And then you'd cry over crushed baguettes."

"I would not!"

He raised an eyebrow. I huffed but didn't argue.

Nights in Paris had their own rhythm. After dinner, we'd sometimes walk along the street, the air sharp with autumn. Kingsley always kept his steps even with mine, watchful without hovering.

Once, a man muttered something in French as we passed. I stiffened. Kingsley immediately angled himself between me and the stranger, his hand light but firm at my elbow. He didn't say a word until the man disappeared down another street.

"See?" he said quietly. "Told you not to walk alone."

I swallowed. "Thanks."

That was it. No lingering looks, no comments. Just protection.