Such was his affection for the city of his youth that he’d even considered bringing Fernanda along, simply for the joy of watching her explore the park. As he scuffed his feet through the falling leaves, he imagined her bounding up to the other dogs, out for a morning stroll, when the air was crisp and mist hung in the boughs. But he’d thought better of it, and just as well. This wasn’t a holiday, and he was obliged to direct his energy towards solving the mystery of Vidor Kiraly. With any luck, and a little prodding, the city would reveal the information he sought.

Having a few minutes to spare on his way to see Bertrand, a school chum from his Sorbonne days, he swung by the magnificent library’s reading room. With its ornate, blue-painted ceiling and subterranean light, it had been his favourite place to study. Between lectures, he would sit at the end of a highly polished table, breathing in the hush, as he turned over the pages of his philosophy texts. While this trip visit to Paris was a fact-finding mission about Vidor’s past, and not a trip down memory lane, as long as he was in the city, it wouldn’t hurt to visit some of his old haunts.

The air vibrated with the hush of intense concentration, as rows of students pored over their books. It was here, seated at a table in the back, that he’d first spotted Sophie, her cloud of golden hair creating a halo of light in the dense atmosphere. This time of year it was, or close enough. Early December, just before the end of term, and the library was heavy with the smell of damp wool. She’d worn a sweater the colour of the evening sky, and a red scarf looped around her neck. Flustered, he’d knocked a book to the floor, and when she looked up their eyes met. A flash of recognition like a jolt of electricity.

C’est toi. There you are. It was the girl who’d been drifting through his dreams of late, though he couldn’t fathom who she might be, or why she’d infiltrated his slumber. Nearly forty years ago, yet the pain had never left him. The story of their love contained in the simple words, if only... Si seulement. The two saddest words in any language. If only he didn’t feel things so strongly. If only he had been the son of a different man, she would have been his wife.