Paris, April 1927

The doorbell's faint chime alerted me that I was running late, prompting me to rush down the stairs while adjusting my earrings. I hastily grabbed my purse, draped a scarf around my shoulders, glanced at my daughter in the living room and bid her a quick farewell before stepping out the door. I felt flustered, revealing my inner turmoil to Christophe, who stood outside in a very formal attire. I apologized awkwardly, "I'm sorry, I look a mess."

"Not at all, you look amazing!" Christophe smiled, "I really like how you've paired your outfit with that scarf. Very French!"

"Francine picked it out for me!" I replied proudly, "Francine, come say hi to Uncle!"

Francine, her golden hair shimmering, stepped out to greet him before returning to her room, engrossed in the latest books of some enigmatic author. Eight years have passed, and Francine is now a thirteen-year-old girl. It feels like just yesterday I was carrying her in my arms, feeding and changing diapers; like just yesterday she clung to me, refusing to let go. Now she's growing up and carving out her own world. Every time I see her growing taller, I'm both happy and melancholic. I'm sad because the thread binding us will gradually thin. There will come a time when Francine will leave this house, following the call of her heart. There will come a time when she won't need my embrace anymore. But isn't that the way of all parent-child relationships? Whenever I think about it that way, the sadness fades. Instead, I feel more joyful and proud than ever because Francine is the greatest achievement of my life!

Christophe opened the car door for me. I agreed to have dinner with him as a token of gratitude for his help in a recent litigation. Christophe Ridden is a colleague in my law firm. Somehow, at 36, I've managed to maintain a youthful appearance. If I didn't mention my age, no one would know that I already have a grown daughter and I'm about to turn forty. It's clear that Richard is infatuated with me. He's relentlessly pursued me, though he's never formally declared his feelings. Perhaps I'm mistaken, but I can't help but notice his affection. In terms of love experience, I don't think I'm falling behind anyone.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

Over the past eight years, there were moments when I felt dreadfully lonely. A single woman living in a foreign land, with a growing daughter, yearning for a man's presence to love and share life with, it burned fiercely inside me. Yet day by day, month by month, and year by year, I remained alone, and everything carried on steadily. I realized I can survive alone. But is that really living? I also yearn to love once more. Many French men have courted me, but my attempts at dating felt empty. I no longer felt that fiery passion. Am I too old to understand the feeling of love? Christophe, oh, I don't know if this time will end as abruptly as the previous ones. I cherish him, and sometimes, I genuinely feel something for him, but I'm not sure if he's the one to walk with me in the years ahead.

We stopped at a restaurant named Le Fou, where he had reserved a table outside so we could gaze at the stars and the fountain across the street. At night, this place becomes a gathering spot for street performers, people who have no home to sleep in, where a jingling tambourine, a guitar, or a worn violin are their only companions. They play as if it's their last day on earth. They play like saints, like gods. They're not bound by any particular song. The melody flows from their hearts and fills the space around them. I couldn't even focus on my sizzling steak, as I observed them. So liberated! So proud! They're channeling the melodies of the divine, from a realm of mystery within their hearts. My fingers, long untouched, awakened after years. I didn't bring a violin to Paris, and I thought I had forgotten all the notes. But perhaps I was mistaken; music never truly left me. It's become a part of me!

"Don't you like it?"

Christophe's voice pulled me from my musical reverie. I looked at his nearly finished steak, mine still untouched. I laughed bashfully and took a bite. The beef was tender, juicy, with the rich flavors of French butter and garlic, combined with the aroma of thyme in a harmonious symphony of tastes inside my mouth. Truth be told, this might be one of the most delicious meals I've ever had.

But why is there still something missing, why do I feel unsatisfied? I looked up, met Christophe's curious gaze, and felt a bit overwhelmed. I smiled softly, responding, "This is the best steak I've ever had."

Christophe chuckled and said nothing more, and both of us continued our meal. I tried to finish my steak, but my mind remained entwined with those street performers. Then I paused and looked at Christophe, and suddenly, my heart opened up to more questions. He's a good man, gallant and a great listener. Without him, I might still be a woman trapped in an empty office at 34 Rue de la Paix. Without him, I might still be defending petty theft cases. I value Christophe, but whether I love him, I'm unsure. I don't know anymore. I want to love again, but the past keeps haunting me. Oh, what should I do?