He could feel Grandad’s raspy breaths behind him.

“I reckon it’s probably even more wonderfuller.”

Marty smiled. Ever since he’d been old enough to know that the model Dad had given him was an actual place, an actual tower, he’d always wanted to visit it. He couldn’t remember much about his dad. It was more just scraps of memories. The scratchiness of his chin when he kissed him, being thrown in the air and caught. Mum and Dad shouting at each other. He did however remember his dad pressing the model of the Eiffel Tower into his hands on his fourth birthday. Saying he loved him as tall as a tower. No explanation. Nothing. That was the last time he saw him. And he’d often thought how you could love someone as tall as a tower and still disappear. And over the years, his desire to see the tower itself had grown and grown and grown. Sometimes, when Marty was lying in bed, feeling the weight of all the stuff on him, he’d think about climbing it. Step after step. Going up, up, up into the world.

“Come on, son,” his grandad said, pulling at his shoulder.

“So, how are we going to reach Paris, when we can’t even afford the bus fare into town?” asked Marty as he followed him out into the garden. Grandad tapped the side of his nose with his finger.

“Don’t you worry about things like that, they’re all details. Details. Piffling little details.”

Grandad sat down with a creak.

“So, how’s school going?”

Marty shrugged.

“Still swearing at those kids under your breath?”

“Yup.”

“Good boy…”

“Got any friends?”

Marty hesitated.

“Maybe…”

Grandad knocked back his trilby with the side of his hand and raised his eyebrows. A slow smile started to cross his face.

“Well, that’s good, that’s really good … what’s his name?”

“Her name is Gracie…,” said Marty, looking at his feet.

“Gracie?” pondered Grandad.

“I was thinking that maybe she could come and look at the seed, maybe, I mean, it doesn’t matter. I haven’t asked her or anything…”

“That’d be lovely,” said Grandad, enjoying himself. “There’s only one problem though…”

Marty’s forehead twisted into a question.

“What?”

“You’ll have to tell her to bring her own mug…”

Gracie arrived home and shouted just in case like she always did.

“In here!” a distracted voice came back. Gracie smiled. Threw her keys on the side table and dropped her bag on the floor. The hallway was high ceilinged, grand, with cold geometric tiles on the floor. All the walls were painted white. Her dad was working on his laptop at the kitchen table. He didn’t look up.

“I didn’t think you’d be here,” Gracie said as she stood in the kitchen doorway.

Her dad continued tapping away.