Someone had pointed at what she’d done, told Emily’s father she had a natural talent that should be nurtured. It was a sketch of a duck, with long, patchwork feet, and identical to the stuffed toy she took with her wherever she went. He was called Clyde and he knew all of Emily’s secrets, all of her hopes and dreams.

Behind her stood a wooden cabinet, divided into equal sections, each containing a thick, cylindrical crayon. They were like lipsticks, wrapped up in cream paper all with their own individual number.

Her father had bought her a box of crayons. Emily reached out her hand, couldn’t quite bring herself to touch a crayon of deepest vermillion, was unable to stop her mind from picturing the cardboard box still sitting in her dresser at home, containing the last remaining fragment of her first ever gift from this shop. It made her question whether her grandmother had known this is where she would end up in Paris. But did she even know of its existence? Of what it meant to her?

She could still hear her parents’ voices, talking to each other about if they had time to go up to Montmartre before dinner, debating whether it was too far to take her, but then it was a holiday, an experience, after all. She could see the way her father looked at his wife, gave her a slow kiss, as if they had all the time in the world. She could still remember what it was like to have them love her.

A familiar feeling began to take hold as she looked all around, imagined the cabinets moving closer, the crayons and tubes of color cascading onto her body and burying her deep. The sensation of falling, as her legs gave way. No ground beneath her, no sky above, just darkness and a persistent ringing in her ears.

Emily didn’t register the sound of Tyler’s voice, nor the concerned looks of other shoppers. She barely heard the rush of traffic or felt the splatter of rain on her skin as he took her away from the shop and all its reminders of the parents, the life, she had lost.

A moment later she was in a café, listening to Tyler order food and wine in French so fluent he could have been native. She was only half aware of the seat in which he had deposited her, of the walls adorned with art deco posters and a giant wooden cockerel standing guard by the door.

She sat with hands cradling her glass as she took slow sips of crushed grapes, felt the acidity catch at the back of her throat. Slowly, the world came back into view, her heart settled, and her body relaxed into the padded bench.

A waitress brought a basket of warm bread and two pots, black like cauldrons, curved handles and tendrils of steam that teased her nose. Emily peeped inside, saw a pile of mussels covered in fragrant cream, with wilting coriander leaves and finely sliced shallots. Her stomach growled in appreciation, and she rubbed her hands together before diving in. It was salty and sweet, due to the combination of shellfish and coconut sauce that she dipped her bread into. A simple meal, but one that hit the spot.