A love that never leaves

Chapter 3: They always find me.

31 December 1969
Paris, France

The deluge of snow pauses for a few minutes, long enough for her to hail a taxi from the steps of her apartment. Time, normally inconsequential and meaningless, seemed to blur that year. Cool wet spring and hot baking summer. Warm sunny autumn and now cold snowy winter. Through it all, a single thread loops around, knotting the months together. She feels the sting of bitter despair when she contemplates the fact.

After all these years, of running and hiding and starting from scratch again and again – here she remains.

Forgotten. Alone.

It feels exceptionally poignant tonight, as the end of another decade arrives. Clawing her way up from the self-loathing pit of her past feels utterly impossible. Why should she move on? The memories caged in her heart are more vital to her survival than anything else she owns.

Right there, that's the key word - survival. This is not living; she knows that. The simple truth is that she's forgotten and alone, because she chose this life. Self-imposed regression, isolation in the purest form. To live, feels insurmountable because she has no clue how the hell she's supposed to simply let go.

She knows though. She knows she should. For him.

This is not the life he wanted for her.

She owes him more than the hollow shell she's become.

Maybe this is it, she tells herself. Maybe this will be the year she rediscovers what it means to live. Maybe this year she can exorcise the ghosts of her past and finally move on.

Maybe, maybe, maybe. A fool's mantra.

Lifting the hem of a black satin evening gown away from the grey slush, she steps carefully through the shoveled path to meet the driver. Sliding into the backseat, she adjusts her long, billowy black coat, tucking it under her knees.

"Moulin Rouge," she requests and her voice is resigned.

How she allowed herself to be roped into a party tonight, she's not sure. New friends, still bursting with sheltered optimism, insisting on making the most of their youth.

Youth. What a funny idea. Her youth disappeared long ago, but the hallmarks of age refuse to visit - no grey hair, no wrinkles around her eyes. Nothing to mark the passage of time, other than the ancient ache fused to her bones. She appears much the same as she did back in 1943, which is soul destroying all on its own.

The world keeps moving forward, but nothing about her wants to follow that same trajectory.

Foggy car windows obscure the lights of Paris as the taxi navigates the crowded streets. From inside, the world resembles a watercolor painting, dabs of muted yellow, smears of soft black. Rolling down the window, she tips her face into the night, letting clean, cold air fill the car. The world returns in sharp relief, the smell of the city filling her nose, bringing a sting of wistfulness; chestnuts roasting in buckets, the heady scent of champagne from the tippling glasses toasting on the sidewalks, the piney smell of decaying needles from Christmas trees piled on street corners. The noise is deafening, as the whole of Paris flocks to the streets, celebrating the end of the 1960s. Even now, 25 years after the Nazi occupation, the city remains hell bent on squeezing every last bit of living from the hours in their grasp.

Part of her wants to encourage them to calm down, to take a breath – it won't happen again, it can't happen again, the world won't let it. But that's what they said in 1918.

Instead, she smiles at the excitement, at the unwavering lust for life. Although she doesn't partake, she still understands the desire. She just wishes she could feel the same.