Threads of Destiny

15

It happened on a Thursday afternoon, after lab. Appie cornered Baron just as he was about to slip out of the building, her bag hanging loosely from one shoulder, her grin wide enough to leave no room for refusal.

“You’ve put me off long enough,” she declared. “This weekend is mine. All of it. I’m showing you my city properly.”

Baron raised an eyebrow, though there was no real resistance in his expression. “The entire weekend?”

“Yes,” Appie said firmly, already fishing a notebook out of her bag. She flipped it open to a page where she had scribbled a half-dozen ideas. “We’ll start with breakfast at Leclair’s — the croissants are better than anywhere else, you’ll see. Then the riverfront. Then the old theatre — not for a show, just to see the murals. Oh, and the gardens, you can’t miss them. And—”

She went on, rapid-fire, barely pausing to breathe. Each place was spoken of with fondness, each memory threaded with childhood visits, family outings, or spontaneous trips with friends.

Baron listened, quiet, watching her fill the air with possibilities. She had already planned two days’ worth of walking, eating, and exploring before he had even said a word.

Finally, when she stopped to take a sip of water, he gave the smallest of nods. “Alright.”

Appie’s grin returned, triumphant. “Good. Don’t be late Saturday morning. You’ll thank me after.”

Baron only gave one of his faint smiles, but Appie took it as full agreement.

For her, the weekend was already unfolding in her head. For him, it was curiosity more than excitement — to see what Étoilemont looked like through Appie Ramone’s eyes.

---

Saturday morning, the streets were still quiet when Baron arrived at the small café Appie had chosen as their meeting point. She was already waiting outside, bouncing lightly on her heels, hands shoved into the pockets of her coat.

“You’re on time,” she said, mock-surprised.

“You made it sound like being late would be a crime,” Baron replied.

With a laugh, Appie took the lead, weaving through side streets until they reached a narrow lane where the air smelled faintly of butter and coffee. At the end of it stood a small eatery, its sign old and simple, the wooden door polished by countless hands over the years.

“This,” Appie announced with a sweep of her arm, “is the best breakfast in all of Étoilemont. Family-run for centuries. The recipes were passed down generation to generation. The building’s been rebuilt and renovated plenty of times, but the food—” she pressed a hand dramatically over her heart—“the food hasn’t changed.”

Inside, the place was cozy, the walls filled with old photographs of the family who had run it through the decades. A couple of locals nodded at Appie as though they had seen her here before, and she beamed back, comfortable, at home.

They ordered croissants, golden and flaking apart at the touch, and another specialty Appie insisted on — a sweet, layered pastry filled with spiced cream that the family had supposedly invented two hundred years ago.

Baron took his first bite, slow, thoughtful, and Appie leaned forward, waiting for his verdict.

He gave a small nod, eyes glinting. “You’re right. It’s good.”

“Good?” she echoed, feigning outrage. “It’s the best thing you’ve eaten all semester, admit it!”

Baron’s smile widened just enough to give her the victory.

Appie leaned back, satisfied. “And that’s just breakfast. You have no idea what’s coming next.”

---

After breakfast, Appie announced, “Now, time for the real highlight.”

Baron raised an eyebrow. “I thought that was breakfast.”

“That was just the warm-up,” she shot back, already striding down the lane.

They walked for half an hour, Appie keeping up a lively stream of conversation, pointing out corners of the city, little stories she had picked up about buildings or old shops. Baron listened, quiet but attentive, his eyes following the details she painted.

Finally, she stopped in front of a narrow storefront tucked between two taller buildings. The sign was plain, the windows simple, the door unadorned. It looked like nothing more than a modest café.

“This is it,” Appie declared. “My favourite café in the whole city.”

Inside, the aroma hit immediately—deep, rich, layered, almost like walking into another world. The walls were bare stone, softened by warm light. Locals filled the tables, most of them with cups of coffee, some quietly reading, others chatting.

Appie explained as they joined the line. “The owner has an estate—coffee plantations. Every bean here comes from there. Handpicked. Sorted. Roasted perfectly. And the baristas…” she lowered her voice as though revealing a secret, “some of the best in the world.”

Baron glanced around, surprised at how unassuming it all looked for something with such reputation.

When their cups arrived, Appie watched him expectantly. Baron took a sip, slow, thoughtful, then gave a small exhale.

“You weren’t exaggerating,” he admitted.

Appie grinned. “Told you. Étoilemont’s best-kept secret. Well, one of them.”

---

From the café, Appie steered Baron toward the newer quarter of Étoilemont, where the streets widened and the buildings gleamed with glass and steel. “Now,” she said with the same certainty as before, “we upgrade.”

The cinema complex rose like a monument to modernity—sleek, imposing, alive with bright signs and a steady hum of people. Inside, the space felt futuristic: glowing floors, digital walls, the faint thrum of sound systems testing somewhere beyond.

“This,” Appie announced, “is the best cinema in the world. The seats recline perfectly, the sound makes you forget you’re sitting in a theatre, and the screen… well, wait and see.”

Baron allowed himself the faintest smile at her enthusiasm.

The movie was one of the year’s most celebrated masterpieces, and the hall was full. As the lights dimmed and the sound enveloped them, the outside world disappeared. The film was rich, sweeping, breathtaking in its storytelling, and every detail was magnified by the theatre’s perfection—the rumble of sound rolling through the seats, the clarity of color and light.

For two hours, neither spoke, absorbed in the story. When the credits finally rolled, Appie leaned back with a satisfied sigh.

“See? Worth it.”

Baron gave a quiet nod, the kind that said more than words. “Yes. Definitely.”

Appie grinned. “And the day’s only halfway done.”

---

After the brilliance of the cinema, Appie slowed their pace. She led Baron away from the crowded boulevards, down narrower streets lined with shuttered windows and weathered stone. “Now,” she said, her tone softer than before, “we go somewhere simple. It’s not fancy. No flashing lights. But it’s where I always feel at home.”

The restaurant was tucked between a bakery and a bookshop, its façade unremarkable, the paint faded with age. Inside, however, the warmth was immediate—wooden tables polished from years of use, walls hung with old sketches of the city, the smell of herbs and fresh bread drifting from the kitchen.

“This,” Appie explained as they sat by the window, “is where my mother and I used to come whenever we wanted a meal that felt… unhurried. It’s not the kind of place tourists look for. But the food is honest.”

The menu was short and unpretentious—soups simmered for hours, roasted meats, seasonal vegetables, and the restaurant’s own bread. Baron ordered simply, as did Appie, and when the plates arrived, the flavors were exactly as she promised: not spectacular, but comforting, the kind of taste that seemed to carry stories.

Appie leaned back, smiling faintly as she watched him take his first bite.

“Well?”

Baron set down his fork and gave a small nod. “It’s… real. Familiar, even if I’ve never been here.”

She looked pleased, her grin breaking into laughter. “That’s it! That’s exactly why I like it. No performance. Just food the way it’s meant to be.”

The two of them lingered, not rushing, letting the quiet of the little restaurant wrap around them.

---

When they stepped back out into the street, Appie tilted her head with a secretive smile. “All right, this next one isn’t really my thing. But I thought of you.”

They walked through the winding lanes until the street opened into a square, and there it stood—a grand stone building, its façade lined with columns, its doors carved with centuries of history. The city’s old library, one of the oldest in the world, once restricted to kings, nobles, and scholars.

Inside, the air was cool, heavy with the scent of parchment and polish. Rows upon rows of towering shelves stretched upward, lit by tall windows that let in shafts of pale light. The ceilings were painted with faded frescoes, echoes of a time when learning itself was a guarded treasure.

Baron moved quietly, as if instinctively lowering his voice. His eyes roamed the shelves, fingers brushing lightly over the spines. Appie watched, amused at how he seemed more alive here than in the cinema or the café.

“You like it,” she said, though she already knew.

He gave a rare smile, small but certain. “It feels… important. Like every book has survived to still be heard.”

Appie only laughed. “I’m glad. Because there’s one more stop.”

A short walk away, nestled at the corner of another quiet street, stood a bookstore just as old—its painted sign faded, its windows filled with leather-bound tomes and curious artifacts. Centuries ago, it had catered to aristocrats and collectors; now, anyone could enter, though it still held an air of secrecy.

The owner greeted them with a nod as they stepped in. The wooden floor creaked, and the scent of ink and dust filled the air. Baron lingered among the shelves, lost in titles and languages, while Appie hung back, hands behind her back, clearly content just to let him wander.

“I had to look this up,” she admitted when he rejoined her, holding a slim volume. “This isn’t my world. But you? You fit here.”

Baron looked down at the book, then at her. “Thank you. For thinking of it.”

And for a moment, there was no need for more words.

---

By evening, the city had begun to glow with lanterns and lights reflecting off the river. Appie led Baron down a sloping street until the sound of water and laughter mingled with the clink of glasses. At the edge of the riverfront, small restaurants lined the promenade, their tables spilling onto terraces that looked out over the rippling current.

She chose one of the quieter ones, where the crowd was thinner and the pace slower. They sat by the railing, a lantern flickering between them, the river’s steady movement like a low hum beneath their meal.

Dinner was simple—fresh fish, seasonal vegetables, a bottle of local wine—but it was the stillness that made it different. For once, Appie didn’t feel the need to fill the silence. Baron, usually reserved, seemed at ease, not guarded, not withdrawn—just present.

At one point, she glanced up at him, her lips tugging into a teasing smile. “You know,” she said, leaning back in her chair, “this almost feels like a date.”

Baron met her eyes, considered it for a beat, then nodded with that understated honesty of his. “I liked it,” he said.

She blinked, then laughed, her cheeks warming at his directness. “Me too.”

And they left it there—smiling, letting the words drift away into the night air, carried off by the river.