The Rival Strike Abroad
Valentine's arrived in Provence like it was trying not to be noticed. No screaming red aisle displays. No plastic cupid armies. Just a small, careful sign that felt older than marketing—like the town had been doing this long before anyone figured out how to monetize longing. A ribbon tied. around a lamppost. A heart cut from paper in a bakery window. A chalkboard outside the café that read Amour chaud in looping handwriting, as if love was something you could order by the cup. The market festival had taken over the plaza beneath the cathedral's outer wall—rows of wooden stalls, strings of tiny bulbs crisscrossing overhead, baskets of winter citrus and jars of honey lined like warm coins. People moved slowly in scarves and heavy coats, pausing to taste and talk and exist without urgenc
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