Threads of Destiny

6

By Friday afternoon, the classroom buzzed with talk of the weekend. Some students were already planning trips home, others huddled in corners making notes about assignments. Appie, perched on the edge of a desk with her usual brightness, clapped her hands to gather attention.

“So,” she began, eyes sparkling, “since half of you aren’t from Étoilemont, I was thinking… why don’t we do a proper city tour? Saturday. I’ll show you the markets, the riverside, the opera house — all the good places they don’t put in tourist guides.”

A ripple of excitement went through the group. Students from the north and west leaned in, already smiling at the idea. Someone asked about food, and Appie grinned wider.

“Of course we’ll stop to eat. Étoilemont without pastry is a crime.”

Names started adding themselves to her list without her even asking. It was effortless, the way people gravitated toward her energy.

Then she turned to Léa, who was pulling her books into her satchel. “Léa, you’re coming, right?”

Léa hesitated, glancing up. “Actually… I already made plans. I’m sorry.”

Appie tilted her head, a flicker of surprise, but she recovered instantly with her usual warmth. “That’s all right. Next time.”

And just like that, she spun back into the conversation, arranging meeting points and joking about how she’d play tour guide in a wide-brimmed hat.

Léa slipped away quietly, relieved but also faintly uncertain. Appie’s world seemed to spin so fast, filled with laughter and faces. Léa’s was smaller, steadier — and she clung to that difference, even as she wondered what she might be missing.

---

Saturday morning dawned crisp and bright, sunlight glinting off the slate rooftops of Étoilemont. Léa and Clémence stood side by side at the bus stop near the dorms, scarves looped against the early autumn chill.

Clémence clutched the folded tour pamphlet. “I thought this would be a good way to see everything at once. Less exhausting than trying to walk the whole city.”

Léa smiled. “And fewer chances of getting lost.”

When the double-decker bus pulled up — painted a cheerful green, its top deck open to the sky — they climbed aboard and found seats near the railing. As the engine rumbled to life, Léa felt a little thrill. For the first time since arriving, she wasn’t rushing to class, unpacking, or studying. She was simply… looking.

The city unfolded before them. Wide boulevards lined with chestnut trees, gilded statues catching the light, bridges arching elegantly across the River Arve. The guide’s voice crackled through the speakers, naming centuries-old landmarks, but Léa was less interested in facts than in the feeling of it all — the weight of history pressing close, the rhythm of the streets alive beneath her.

Clémence pointed excitedly at the opera house, its grand façade gleaming. “Imagine attending a concert there. My village barely has a theatre.”

“And my city has one, but nowhere near this,” Léa admitted, her voice tinged with awe.

They shared headphones when the audio guide offered music samples — Étoilemont’s famous waltzes, marching anthems, and festival songs. At one point, a sudden gust carried the smell of fresh bread from a corner bakery up to the top deck, and both girls laughed, pressing their noses to the air like children.

By the time the bus looped back toward the dormitory district, their cheeks were pink from the wind and their conversation easy.

“I think,” Clémence said softly, “I might actually start to love this city.”

Léa looked at her, then back at the skyline. She felt it too — the stirrings of belonging, fragile but real. And for the first time, the thought of spending years here no longer felt daunting.

---

By late morning, Appie’s group had gathered in the university courtyard: nearly a dozen students from the north, west, and a few from even farther, all chatting over one another.

“All right,” Appie declared, clapping her hands. “We have two options. Grand monuments tour, or… food tour.”

“Food!” came the chorus, almost unanimous.

Appie grinned. “Food it is. I knew I liked you all.”

They set off down the boulevards, Appie at the front like a conductor of some merry orchestra. Their first stop was a tiny pâtisserie famous for its cloud-like lemon tarts. The group crowded inside, their laughter bouncing off the tiled walls as they pointed at rows of pastel-colored pastries.

Next came a café known for its spiced hot chocolate, thick enough to coat a spoon. They stood on the pavement outside, sipping from porcelain cups, steam curling in the cool air. Someone smeared whipped cream on another’s nose; Appie laughed so hard she nearly dropped her cup.

At midday, they found themselves in the covered market, where Appie led them to a stall selling cured meats and cheeses. Samples were handed out, slices of bread piled high, and soon everyone was eating with their fingers, talking with mouths full, voices tumbling into one another.

The afternoon was a blur of flavors: buttery escargots at a tucked-away bistro, roasted chestnuts from a street vendor, jewel-bright macarons from a famous shop. Appie kept the group moving, but never rushed — her joy was in watching everyone’s faces light up as they tried something new.

By evening, the students were leaning against one another, tired but glowing with satisfaction.

“That,” one boy groaned happily, “was the best first Saturday of my life.”

Appie beamed, her cheeks pink from the wind and laughter. For her, the food had been wonderful — but what mattered most was this: she had given them a memory already, something they would talk about weeks from now, even years.

And that, she thought, was what made a city feel like home.

---

Baron left his flat just after noon, hands in his pockets, collar turned against the breeze. The streets were busy, but he moved through them with a kind of calm detachment, a quiet observer more than a participant.

The cinema marquee caught his eye — a new historical drama, the posters promising grand battles and impossible romance. He bought a ticket without much thought, sank into the velvet seat, and let the screen carry him away. For two hours, he wasn’t Baron Blaise, pianist with an injured hand. He was just another figure in the dark, watching someone else’s story.

When the credits rolled, he slipped back into the city. A sandwich shop on the corner provided a late lunch — rye bread heavy with cheese and mustard — and a coffee that warmed his palms as he wandered.

The bookstore was an accident. He hadn’t planned to go in, but the bell above the door chimed softly as he pushed it open, and suddenly he was surrounded by quiet rows of spines.

He didn’t search by title or author. Instead, he drifted, pulling down whatever caught his eye: a war memoir, a slim book of poems, a novel about a painter. He skimmed first chapters, reading standing up in the aisle. Some he put back without hesitation. Others held him for a page or two before losing their grip.

And then — one book held him past the first chapter. He turned the page to the second before realizing what he’d done. That was the test. With a small, almost private smile, he carried it to the counter and bought it.

By the time he walked home, dusk had settled over Étoilemont. He tucked the book under his arm, the weight of it light but certain.

It wasn’t music, it wasn’t a performance. But it was something. A beginning.