Journey To Remember
634 Words
As they boarded the plane, Marie gripped his hand tighter than usual.
He noticed.
“You alright?” he asked, his thumb brushing hers.
She smiled, but it didn’t quite mask the weariness behind her eyes. “I just need this to be perfect.”
Francis leaned in, his voice low. “Then let’s go make perfect happen.”
---
The warm kiss of the Mediterranean greeted them in Marseille. Their boutique hotel sat perched above a vineyard, its terracotta rooftops glowing beneath the sun. Bougainvillea spilled down the walls like painted flames. It was breathtaking.
“This place,” Marie whispered, standing on the balcony, “it feels like a story waiting to be written.”
Francis joined her, wrapping his arms around her waist. “Then let’s write it.”
They spent their days getting lost in alleyways, drinking espresso on shaded terraces, wandering flea markets full of hand-painted tiles and vintage perfume bottles. At night, they dined by the sea, watching the sun sink like molten gold into the water. Marie had been to a hundred cities for work. But this—this was different.
This was intimacy without performance. This was real.
---
By day three, they’d reached the heart of Provence: olive groves, slow hills, lavender fields in full bloom. In a village square, Marie picked up a leather-bound journal from an antique bookstore—worn edges, the scent of time and dust.
“You always wanted to write it all down,” Francis said as he watched her flip through its empty pages.
She nodded. “Lately, it feels like my life’s been happening faster than I can feel it. Maybe this is how I hold on.”
He smiled. “Then let’s make it a journal worth keeping.”
---
That afternoon, they picnicked by a field of lavender, its fragrance curling around them like silk. Marie lay back on the blanket, eyes half-closed, sunlight dancing across her face.
“You’re not who I expected to fall for,” she murmured.
Francis turned toward her. “Good or bad?”
“Unexpected... in the best way,” she said. “You’ve become part of my story without asking to be written in.”
Francis kissed her temple. “I don’t need the headline. Just let me stay in the margins.”
---
Each day after felt like borrowed time: whispered dreams in bed, impromptu roadside detours, laughter echoing across empty churches and over glasses of rosé. Their love deepened not through grand declarations, but in the silences. The way he brushed her hair back when she fell asleep in the car. The way she whispered thank you after every meal he planned.
On their last day, they rose before dawn and watched the sunrise spill gold over the vineyards. The air was cool, full of promise.
“I don’t want this to end,” Marie whispered.
Francis pulled her close. “Then don’t let it.”
---
Back at the hotel, as Francis zipped up his suitcase and Marie reached for her passport, her phone buzzed.
She picked it up without much thought.
But the moment her eyes landed on the screen, her hand froze.
Her face went pale.
Francis noticed instantly. “What is it?”
She didn’t answer. The phone trembled in her grip.
He crossed the room in two strides. “Marie?”
She turned the screen toward him.
A single message. No name. Just a French number neither of them recognized.
> **UNKNOWN:**
> *Did he tell you what happened the last time he was in Provence?*
> *Ask him about Saint-Rémy.*
> *Before it’s too late.*
Marie looked up, her eyes wide, breath caught in her throat.
Francis’s jaw tightened.
The silence between them, once so comforting, suddenly grew cold and vast.
- Writer
