Memories Never Dies

Épisode 3

Chapter 2

The next morning, when the piercing alarm clock abruptly wakes me, my last dream, which I remember perfectly for once, troubles me greatly. Nevertheless, resolved not to overwhelm my mind, I stretch and then get up.

Without much thought, I tie my long brown hair into a ponytail and pull on a pair of sweatpants, along with my worn-out pink sweatshirt that I find hard to part with. Indeed, at heart, I'm a sentimental soul who has difficulty letting go of things. Some objects, but not only objects. And upon reflection, what could be more natural for an orphan like me to view every separation as a difficult act? A behavior that probably reflects my need to keep what I cherish close, considering all that I've lost. Maybe, somewhere, it's a way to compensate for the lack of loved ones with other means. Because today, although strong and confident about the future, I didn't exactly start my life under the best circumstances. And that's putting it lightly...

With a grandfather who passed away a few months before my birth, a father who ran away before I was even born, and a mother who tragically died in a car accident when I was just eleven months old, it could have been much worse than my compulsive need to keep everything. But beyond that, my experiences with life have also helped shape me into a person capable of turning most problems into solutions and staying positive no matter the situation. Like the fact that I prefer to believe that everything that happens to us, good or bad, are simply signs and opportunities meant to guide us in the right direction. And most certainly one of the reasons why I prefer, by far, to stick my latest dream away in a corner of my mind until it starts to make sense. The other reason probably comes from my grandmother, Nonna, who never tires of repeating, "Enjoy life to the fullest! " Words filled with good sense, which ensure that inactivity has never been a part of my lifestyle. Therefore, to savor every crumb of this fragile existence, I rise early, even before dawn, to embrace the world and make the most of each day, as the old saying goes. In fact, I begin each day with a run along the seashore. But today, for once, things will not go according to the usual routine.

In the rush, I grab my earbuds and phone, tuck them into the back pocket of my jogging pants, and cast a final glance around my room to check if I've forgotten anything. Suddenly, my eyes alight on a small dark object, about a few centimeters wide, sitting on the floor in front of the half-open window. The dim light and the soft pastel curtains swaying gently in the morning breeze alternately hide and reveal the object beneath their fluttering fabric, making it difficult for me to discern exactly what it is.

I move closer and pick up the object, surprised to discover a feather. But what a feather! With its length of nearly sixteen inches and its absolutely unreal purple color, it's unlike anything I've ever seen before! For a brief moment, I stand there, wondering what kind of bird could have entered my room last night. A peacock? A mutant swan? Smiling to myself at my own joke, I sneak a peek at my watch. No more time to waste! I place my latest discovery and my sketchbook on the desk, then gently close my bedroom door to avoid waking my older sister Luna, whose room is right across the hall. I rush downstairs, slip on my running shoes, and don my orange woolen hat (yet another ugly item I can't bring myself to throw away). I give my grandmother a quick kiss before dashing out the back door, which is right next to the staircase and leads directly to the Ondine beach.

This is where I begin my daily run, specifically on the path that starts from the back of the garden, overlooking the sandy expanse. It's a moment I particularly cherish, enjoying my Indie rock playlist, the tranquility of the deserted area at this early hour, and the splendid panorama stretching to infinity.

As "Trees" by Twenty One Pilots echoes in my head, the refreshing sea breeze, still cool in this month of March, gently teases the skin on my face. Despite this, after a few sustained strides, it's quite welcome. In tune with my run, the city awakens slowly, the lamplight fading as daylight takes over.

After about twenty minutes, I complete my run behind the village church. There, facing a tranquil sea, I stretch my muscles and make my way back, walking this time, towards the grocery store in the town center. It's a regular stop, as I always take advantage of my morning escapade to bring the daily newspaper back for my grandmother.

But today, the grocery store is closed! On the door, the owner has left a note:

"Closed for the day. Bread and newspapers can be picked up at the pub in the town center - Thank you."

I sigh, my shoulders drooping as I realize this means a significant detour that won't help my timing. For once, I decide that Nonna will have to do without the day's news...

About to continue on my way, I'm struck by a sudden feeling, guilt, or something else, that stops me in my tracks and compels me to change my mind.

After a few extra minutes of walking, I arrive, sweaty, at the pub. I hesitate to push the door open, faced with my unflattering reflection in the window: old sweats and a bright orange hat on someone who's just run three kilometers. In terms of looking a mess, it's hard to do worse! And while I rarely encounter customers at the grocery store, here at the pub for early-morning socializing, it's a whole different story...

Realizing the absurdity of this self-conscious thought, especially for someone like me who doesn't usually care much about external judgments, I roll my eyes and walk into the pub. The owner, a man in his fifties, is wiping glasses behind the bar.

- Good morning, Rosabella. What can I get you ?

asks the man, staring at me a bit too curiously.

I step forward, take the earbuds out of my ears, and put them in my back pocket.

- Good morning, sir. I'd like a newspaper, please.

- Help yourself. They're right behind you, responds the manager, gesturing with a nod towards a vertical display stand.

I turn in the direction he pointed to and notice a man with surprising elegance sitting at a table just a couple of steps away from us. As he waves his cell phone above him, apparently searching for a signal, I approach the newspaper stand. But my curiosity, piqued by this unusual character, subtly diverts my attention to him while I leaf through the piles of publications. He's dressed in an elegant outfit that appears to be inspired by a another century—an intentionally flaunted steampunk style—complemented by a modern hairstyle : shaved on the sides and bleached on top. As if sensing my gaze, the man looks up in my direction. Our eyes meet for a fleeting moment before I abruptly break the connection, pulling the hood of my sweatshirt over my face. It's not that the situation embarrasses me—far from it—but rather my self-esteem takes a hit as I recall my appearance, which starkly contrasts with this fashion model's. And honestly, who wouldn't be a bit bothered by such an unfair comparison, especially considering I'm the opposite of what my sporty attire suggests?

Determined to put an end to this pseudo-discomfort as soon as possible, I grab the first newspaper from the stack and turn to the bartender to pay.

But my pulse races the instant the stranger's warm, captivating voice caresses my eardrums—a sensation that is both disconcerting and strangely familiar.

- Please, young lady?

Surprised by this unexpected interaction, the distinctiveness of his voice, and especially nervous about the imminent face-to-face encounter, my heart rate jumps another notch as I steal a quick, uncertain glance over my shoulder. The handsome stranger has risen from his seat and is approaching me with assured steps. His playful smile and sparkling eyes reveal his awareness of the impression he's just made.

Without breaking eye contact, he bends down and picks up the earbuds I've just accidentally dropped on the floor.

- You dropped these,

he says as he straightens and holds out his hand, palm facing up.

Unusually intimidated by the towering six-foot-three frame overflowing with masculinity and the piercing intensity of his dark eyes that seem to see straight into my soul, I hurriedly avert my eyes and awkwardly reclaim my accessories.

- Oh... I... Thank you...

I stutter, trying to maintain an air of indifference and hide the inexplicable effect he's having on me.

Nobody ever throws me off my game, ever. That's because I can always maintain my composure and I have exceptional interpersonal skills—both necessary qualities in the event planning industry. But right now, I can't explain this sudden, disorienting unease that has come over me. Between my restless night and this unexpected encounter, I'm starting to think this day is reaching new heights of strangeness.

Unless...

- Have we met before ?

I hazard, my eyebrows furrowed as I search my memory.

- Forgive me, (he apologizes, biting his lip in an irresistible way.) I haven't introduced myself. Amaury Sander.

As he extends his hand and I attempt to decode his body language, I notice he's cleverly evaded my question. But before I can further explore this thought, an invisible flame erupts from the contact of our palms. I abruptly pull back, planting a dazed look in the eyes of this unforeseen agitator. "Calm down, it's nothing to worry about," my reason whispers, the undisputed mistress of my ship, attributing the phenomenon to a simple, common static shock during winter, offering a semblance of reassurance. For the rest, nothing about him—from his captivating aura to his enchanting tone, or even his eyes with their mysterious magnetism—seems rational anymore.

And indeed, as I plunge into the abysses of his eyes, as if into a vast ocean from which one might not emerge unharmed, I feel a sudden magnetic pull drawing me in. For a split second, as if I've experienced it before, my awareness is impacted by a faint, obscure perception of a new yet oddly familiar feeling. In the following instant, time stands still. Apart from the frantic beating of my heart and a piercing ringing in my ears, no other sound reaches me. Frozen, my gaze locked with the stranger's, I seem to float, disconnected from my own body, as if someone had paused the scene, and for a fleeting moment, nothing exists but Him and Me!

Okay, I admit it's a bit cliché, but it's truly what I'm experiencing—a kind of timeless absence. And it's the sudden alarm from my watch that abruptly snaps me out of this peculiar state. Immediately, the sounds and images around me reappear, and my heart rate slows down.

Time has resumed its course.

I look down at my wrist and suppress my emotions as I realize I'm running late. Without another thought for the stranger, I pay for the newspaper at the bar and rush out of the coffee shop.

I resume my hurried walk towards the house, filled with self-reproach. I can't believe how I acted, because fleeing is not something I do. And what exactly am I trying to avoid in the end? That's the question... What am I running from? The unprecedented emotions he's awakened within me? Him? Both? And why? It's not the first time a man—no matter how charming—has approached me. No, that's for sure. What's new, however, is this complete loss of control over my heartbeat and the questions it raises.

Where did he come from? What has he done to me? Has he enchanted me with his hypnotic eyes? Impossible! I'm not that kind of person. I'm far too rational to let myself be swept away by such thoughts. Yet, everything seemed outside the realm of reality.

Like a dream in which a series of psychological phenomena were amplified by sensory manifestations. Except I wasn't asleep! It's one thing to have completely absurd hallucinations at night, but during the day? No, no, no, it's out of the question. To further reassure myself, I consider it must have been a result of fatigue, stress, or...love at first sight, my heart suggests.

Nonsense! I console myself, shaking my head as life around me returns to normal.

The chocolatier I pass by greets me with an amused expression. I automatically wave back, not paying much attention to his manner, my mind more preoccupied with trying to make sense of all this. Even the refreshing morning breeze fails to revitalize me. Like a scratched record, the coffee shop scene persistently torments my mind. Images of Him. His angelic posture. His magnetic gaze. His devastating smile and his divine beauty...

Enough to destabilize the entire universe, for sure. At least, that's what my little inner voice—the voice of reason—whispers to me, urging me to immediately return to solid ground. This contradicts the voice of my heart, which seems to speak of something greater, stronger, even unimaginable.