She had lost so much more than her parents, and being back in this house, this home, only made her feel it all over again. He had been her best friend, and then, quite possibly, something more, something still to happen. So many firsts experienced with him, then suddenly gone, as if she had imagined it all. Two years spent in a rehabilitation clinic, during which her godmother had never visited, simply sent letters that Emily’s grandmother would read, telling of all the things Tyler was achieving, so many hopes and dreams that should have included her.

Turning the envelope over and over between her fingers, she sat, then took out more sheets of pale blue paper that contained another snippet from her grandmother’s past, laid them flat on the table, and began to read.

8 June 1965

“Be not inhospitable to strangers, lest they be angels in disguise.”

Paris, c’est magnifique! This city is just exhilarating and exhausting in so many ways, I’m not sure I could ever capture them all and find a way to put it down on the page.

The quote at the top is written above the doorway in the bookshop where I am now living, yes living! Something taken from the Bible, apparently, but meant as a motto for all who are lucky enough to stay. In exchange for working during the day, myself and five other aspiring writers/artists/creative souls are allowed to stay here and experience everything that Paris has to offer.

How did this happen? Me, a girl from the wilds of Scotland, in Paris, where so many creative geniuses once hath trod? James Joyce actually stayed here, in this very shop. So too did Hemingway, Kerouac and Mr. Fitzgerald. Not to mention all the streets around here, virtually impregnated with the pain of Monet, Picasso, Van Gogh, crikey, just about everyone who ever lived in this ridiculous city, once upon a while ago. Someone told me that Picasso used to trade his paintings for food when he first came here because he was so poor. There’s a house up in Montmartre, near his studio, that was sold recently, only for the new owner to discover one of his canvasses in an old trunk in the basement. How incredibly pissed off would you be if you’d sold that house???

To think this is where they all started, all those years ago. And who else has passed through, who else is still to come? Will I be one of those people? My name synonymous with books that line the shelves all over the world? Will people one day come here to think about me, about how I once slept on a bed and came up with an idea for a story that inspired them to follow my dream for themselves?

This place is the stuff of legends, of stories and experiences passed down through generations, but I feel strangely possessive of it. As if it’s too good to share. As if this is my own, private discovery that would only be spoilt if others knew about the magic contained in these crumbling walls.