The cool dust that covered our feet and crept up our ankles and told us we were alive back then led us to a cove, an earthy chute that spit us out from encroaching suburbia and into a world of magic. Seagulls and hidden crabs waited along the water’s edge and beneath the sand, sometimes under stubborn rocks that would relent only to four tiny hands. Seagulls were part dog, in our mind, the way they followed us around, and we named them—No, that one’s Rory, not Fred. We expected a message to be hidden in every bottle we came across and that at any moment a mermaid would surface near the horizon and flip high in the air. The dirt path was a gateway to discovery; it was there we first started babbling in our own made-up language. We drew tentative scribbles in the sand until they became consistent shapes with meaning, opening a new dimension of possibility.

Moon, Angela would say to me as I frowned in concentration, let’s make our own magic.

We stuffed napkins with our words into soda cans and set them adrift, certain a reply would come.

Turns out, I only had to wait twenty years for one to turn up in France.

Seb busies himself getting me water from the kitchen while I cross to a sweeping window with open shutters. The square below boils with life. I turn away. The outdoor warmth cloaks my back, making the apartment frigid by contrast.

Angela’s studio is utilitarian, a perfect square, with wooden beams protruding from the ceiling. The largest furniture item is the twin bed tucked against a wall, a simple white comforter draping its frame. The kitchen nook is squeezed in the left corner, beside a closet-size bathroom and a set of drawers.

I look anywhere except the whiteboard.

“I’m really tired,” I announce. “Would you mind if we start cleaning later today? Jet lag is catching up, and it’s three in the morning for me.”

Seb regards me, not speaking. A breeze flicks a dark strand of hair across my face, but I don’t move. Holding his eye contact feels important for some reason, like if I don’t, he’ll see right through me—that I’m not actually tired, but rather that potent adrenaline is flooding my veins.

He nods. “I will return this evening. I live on the Left Bank, so I will be here by seven o’clock, if that is okay.”

“Sounds good.”

He turns to leave, casting another sorrowful glance upon Angela’s personal items and the tiny bed they probably shared.

“Sebastien?”

“Seb. Yes, Shayna?” His voice brightens, as though I might put off my nap.