❝ FOR FREEDOM.
FOR T R U T H.
AND FOR LOVE. ❞
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐊𝐄𝐍 𝐂𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐍.
1978. Where a squib and a mischief-maker cross
paths at the crux of a war that would eventually
tear apart everything - and everyone - they...
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21st August, 1994 Paris, France.
THE CAFE STOOD peacefully disregarded along the narrow, cobblestone street of Rue Cler, quaint but quiet as it had been for decades. From the outside, with its oak paneled doors and the pots of geranium and carnations dotting the perimeter, it seemed indifferent from the dozens of other restaurants, cafés, and taverns which lined the street. Perhaps the inside too was not entirely unique, but those that did stumble into the place often fell for its quirky charm.
Golden beams of summer light streamed in through the mullioned windows of Café de Madeline to cast a checkered pattern over the dark wooden floor of the vibrant cafe. In contrast to its pale, minty walls, dark wood furniture had been placed around the room. At each table, a lace tablecloth in the color of eggshells had been draped; each morning someone placed atop it a vase of fresh peonies in varying shades of pink. Upon inspection, one would find the chairs upholstered in a variety of fabrics and patterns - from velvet and silk, to viscose and leather - and no two chairs or settees matched one another. Frames of beaten bronze and gold hung along all the walls, depicting France and its many glorious sights, as well as writings from its most notable writers and poets.
But half hidden in the shadows of greater stores - a new boutique and an old pub famous for its rich fare and beer - the café was rarely busy. Though people often stopped by to pick up a coffee or a macaron on their way to wherever life in Paris pulled them. Today seemed to be another day of toiling about the place, poring over inventories, and listening to the cello that the manager was so fond of. So far, only three customers had come in, all frequent visitors whose preference Inés knew by heart.
As she did most days, Inés had spent the greater half of the morning watching people from the window beside the counter, taking in their outfits and making notes in the hopes of improving her own wardrobe. She had been admiring the scarf of a woman sitting at a table just across the cobblestoned street, when the bell chimed. A tall, lanky man appeared before her, his face half shadowed by the sunlight striking his flat cap. Even so, she could still see the scars littering this face.
"Bonjour," the man began, tugging a loose thread from the lapel of his coat as he continued, "uh, je suis... ici... por, uh, pour voir, Madame Dumont?"
The waitress eyed the man curiously. Had he not struggled with French, it would still have been clear that he came from elsewhere. In a city that brimmed with people parading their best attire, he was dressed in a long, shabby overcoat that was more fitting for a decade or two ago, while his hair, a mess of brown, windswept strands that were graying at the corners, looked in desperate need of a fresh cut.
