Threads of Destiny

14

At the café Appie had chosen, the tables were small, the windows wide, and the air filled with the low murmur of people who came there to work rather than be seen. For Appie, though, the quieter backdrop only made her voice stand out more.

Her energy was boundless. One moment she was cracking a joke about the professor’s handwriting, the next she was telling the group about the best bakery hidden two streets away, then — without pause — launching into a story from a childhood holiday. Her topics ran like an endless river, twisting from one thing to another with hardly a breath in between.

Baron, sitting across from her, kept his focus steady when it came to the work itself. He guided their assignment with ease, writing code, outlining the structure, and showing her how to fix a small error when she asked. Appie followed his lead without hesitation. The actual work took little time, finished neatly between sips of coffee.

But the rest of the afternoon belonged to Appie’s voice. She talked, he listened. Sometimes he laughed — a quiet laugh, brief but genuine, surprising her the first time she heard it.

“You really don’t know the city yet, do you?” she said suddenly, leaning her elbows on the table. “That won’t do. You’ve been here months already. I have to show you around properly.”

Baron gave a small shrug. “I’ve seen enough.”

“Not even close,” Appie said, shaking her head firmly. “You’ve only seen the insides of classrooms, bookstores, and cafés. Leave it to me. I’ll make sure you know the real Étoilemont.”

Her determination was absolute, the kind that swept others along whether they agreed or not. Baron didn’t argue. He only gave one of his faint smiles, the kind that neither confirmed nor refused.

For Appie, that was good enough.

---

When Léa and Baron met at the café for their project, the atmosphere felt different from Appie’s whirlwind sessions. The table was quieter, the pauses longer, the conversation unhurried.

They began with the assignment — outlining what needed to be done, dividing the tasks evenly. Baron worked quickly, precise in his explanations, and Léa matched his pace without fuss. She wasn’t intimidated by his skill; instead, she focused on her part carefully, determined to contribute properly.

When the work slowed, conversation came more naturally. Léa asked him about the book he’d brought along. He asked about her hometown. From there, they drifted to food, movies, music — each discovering that their tastes didn’t always align.

“You don’t like seafood?” Léa asked, eyes wide with mock disbelief.

Baron gave a small shake of his head. “Not really.”

“Tragic,” she teased, grinning. “You’re missing half the joys of life.”

He gave one of his faint smiles in return. “I’ll take your word for it.”

Their differences became points of humor rather than distance, and the more time they spent together, the more they found to laugh about.

The hours slipped by unnoticed. By the time they gathered their notes and stood to leave, the café was half empty, the sky outside darkening into evening.

As they stepped out, Léa thought to herself that working with Baron wasn’t what she had expected. It was easier. And, in its own way, enjoyable.

---

The bell above the bookstore door chimed softly as Baron stepped inside, the familiar scent of paper and ink wrapping around him like a cloak. He expected to see Monsieur Duret, as always, behind the counter. Instead, a young woman about his age looked up from arranging a stack of newly arrived titles.

She smiled warmly. “You must be Baron Blaise.”

He blinked, a little surprised. “I am.”

“My father’s told me about you,” she explained, dusting her hands on her skirt. “He said you’ve practically read half the shelves here. I’m Cécile.”

“Where is he?” Baron asked, glancing around, still expecting the older man to appear from the back room.

“On a long-overdue holiday,” Cécile said, with a hint of pride. “I packed him off on a tour of the continent. He’ll finally see the places he’s been recommending to travelers for years. Until then, the store is mine.”

Baron gave a small nod. “I see.”

There was no awkwardness in Cécile. She spoke easily, as though they had already known each other for months. Within minutes, she was asking what he was reading, what he’d liked most so far, and which books he hadn’t finished. To his own surprise, Baron found himself answering in detail.

They slipped into conversation as naturally as one might fall into step with a familiar walking partner. By the time Baron left, carrying a book she had personally recommended, it felt as though he had gained a new friend — not by effort, but by simple inevitability.

And when he glanced back at the window, he saw Cécile returning to her shelves with a contented air, as though she too knew their first meeting would not be their last.

---

Baron returned to the bookstore only a few days later, intending to browse as he usually did. But before he could even wander the shelves, Cécile greeted him with a small stack of books already set aside.

“I thought of you when I pulled these,” she said simply, her tone casual, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

He glanced at the covers, recognizing some authors he’d heard of, others entirely unfamiliar. “You’ve read all of these?”

“Of course,” Cécile replied with an easy shrug. “And more. I read too much, or so my father says.”

Baron hesitated, then picked one up. He leafed through the first few pages, the same test he always used when deciding. But this time, he didn’t need to keep reading to know. If Cécile had chosen it, he trusted it was worth his time.

Their conversation flowed as they compared favorites — his more measured, hers tumbling quickly from title to title. He realized that while his taste was deliberate, hers was expansive, stretching across genres and voices. Yet somewhere in that breadth, their preferences met again and again.

By the time Baron left, his arms were full of her recommendations. For the first time since he’d started frequenting the shop, he didn’t feel the need to search the shelves himself. Cécile’s choices would guide him well enough.

As he stepped into the evening air, he thought how unexpected it was — to find someone whose love for books ran even deeper than his own, and whose instincts he trusted more than his own quiet method.