Morning Light & Old Stones
1091 Words
Sunlight spilled through the thin curtains of Amelia’s room, soft and golden, the kind of winter light that looked cold but felt like hope. She stretched under the warm blankets and inhaled deeply.
Beauvais smelled like a holiday postcard.
She blinked at the ceiling, allowing yesterday to replay in her mind—the manor, the snow, the little girl, the shattered snow globe, the man with tired eyes who called himself Gabriel.
She immediately felt her stomach flutter.
Pull yourself together, Amelia.
"You are here for work'' she spoke to herself. Not for strangers with heartbreak in their eyes.
She dressed quickly, choosing a soft sweater and her warmest coat, then headed downstairs.
“Good morning, ma chérie,” the innkeeper greeted, placing a steaming mug of coffee on the counter before Amelia even asked. “Sleep well?”
“I did,” Amelia said, though it wasn’t entirely true. She had slept in fragmented pockets—dreams filled with little bunny-ear hats and hazel eyes that watched too carefully.
Solène leaned her elbows on the counter, studying her with knowing warmth.
“Your first full day of work, hmm? The manor is lucky.”
Amelia felt her cheeks warm. “I hope I am lucky enough for it.”
Solène chuckled. “You will meet Monsieur Lemaire today—the caretaker. The building has been in his family for generations. He knows every c***k and sigh of that house.”
“Perfect,” Amelia said, brightening.
Solène hesitated then, her eyes flicking briefly toward the window overlooking the lane.
Amelia followed her gaze.
A tall man in a dark coat walked past—broad shoulders, slow steps. A small girl trotted beside him, clutching what looked suspiciously like a familiar snow globe.
Her breath caught.
Solène noticed.
“You’ve seen them?” she asked gently, though unreadable.
“Yes,” Amelia admitted. “Yesterday. The little girl slipped. I helped her and… fixed her snow globe.”
Solène’s expression softened—beautifully, heartbreakingly so.
“They have had a difficult time,” she said quietly. “The whole village, we try to give them space.”
Amelia nodded, choosing her next words carefully.
“Do you know them?”
A flicker passed through Solène’s gaze—recognition, protectiveness, a quiet warning.
“I know everyone,” she said with a kind smile.
“Is he from the village?”
“I think it is best that he tells you his own story. Beauvais honors privacy, especially in… tender moments.”
Amelia nodded immediately, not offended. Just curious — and more certain than ever that there was a story she was not meant to pry into yet.
“Of course,” she said softly. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”
Solène’s hand touched her arm with warm reassurance.
“You’re kind. People notice that.”
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Snow crunched beneath her boots as she walked the slope leading to Beauvais Manor. The morning sun revealed the building more clearly than the day before — and she could finally see its details with her architect’s eye.
The shutters were faded but salvageable. The stonework could be restored with careful chiseling. The wooden beams beneath the roofline carried centuries of craftsmanship.
She loved it already.
A man stood near the front terrace, unlocking a side door. Tall, sturdy, wrapped in an old wool coat, with a wool cap pulled low over his ears. His breath puffed like steam as he worked.
Amelia approached. “Bonjour,” she called gently.
He turned. His face warmed instantly.
“Ah. You must be Mademoiselle Windsor,” he said. “I am Henri Marchand — the caretaker. I’ve tended this manor for twenty-seven years.”
“It’s an honor,” she said sincerely. “I’m here to evaluate the building for restoration.”
Henri’s smile deepened lines around his eyes. “Then you and I will be good friends.”
He unlocked the heavy wooden door, and Amelia followed him inside.
The interior was dim, but beams of morning light slipped through cracks in the shutters. Dust floated in the air like glitter. The scent of old wood and stone wrapped around her like a welcome. He led her through the space, his steps slow but steady. Amelia followed closely, taking notes, brushing her fingers over old beams and faded wallpaper.
“This house dates back to 1764,” Henri began. “Built by the Beauvais family. Generations lived and died here. Joyful times, tragic times. The walls remember.”
Amelia’s heart warmed. Yes. This was the language she loved.
Lucien pointed to the cracked stone staircase.
“The weather has not been kind. And with no one living here for years…” He shrugged. “Well, buildings grieve too.”
Amelia nodded, understanding in the way only someone who loved old places could.
As they moved through the empty rooms, Lucien told stories—about the original owners, about village festivals once held in the courtyard, about how the house had been almost sold to developers twice, saved only by stubborn locals who refused to let it be turned into holiday apartments.
“This manor used to be… many things,” he explained. “But most recently, it served as the local art school’s workshop. The village children came here for painting classes, pottery… small exhibitions.”
He paused near a long, narrow table covered with flecks of dried paint.
“Claire Moreau was one of our art teachers. A gentle soul, très patiente. She passed away recently.”
Amelia swallowed. Could it be Elise mother? Gabriel's wife? She wanted to ask, but she had already learned her lesson. And her interest should be in her work. Not a grieving man, that wasn't going to even be available for a relationship. STOP.
“Oh… I'm sorry” she managed to say.
Henri continued talking about the building. But her mind was drifting. Amelia exhaled slowly. The pieces began to settle.
The manor wasn’t just a building. It was a memory. A refuge. A last piece of a family now broken.
“What will happen to the place now?” she asked.
Henri shrugged gently.
“That is for you to decide, Mademoiselle Windsor. And for the village council. But… I hope it will live again. Claire would have liked that.”
The weight of his words settled sweetly, firmly inside her.
“I’ll do everything I can,” she whispered. It was the least that she could do for the little girl that captured her heart.
- Writer
