Chapter 13: Paris in Early Winter
Chapter 13: Paris in Early Winter
The city of Paris in early winter seemed to be holding its breath beneath a veil of cold, misty haze. The wind swept through the empty streets, casting long shadows from the street lamps onto the damp sidewalks, carrying with it the damp smell of fallen leaves, mingled with the scent of freshly baked bread from a small café nearby. Footsteps echoed on the cobblestones,
occasionally drowned out by the rattling of cars navigating the narrow streets, creating sporadic sounds in the still air. Paris, once dazzling and full of life, now appeared with a loneliness both unfamiliar and intimate, reminding me that I had truly left behind everything I knew, leaving behind the people I once loved and a past full of pain.
My flight had landed at six in the evening, just in time for the warm yellow lights of the city to begin to glow, yet enough for the emptiness in my heart to grow heavier. After completing all the immigration procedures, I stepped outside slowly, dragging my old suitcase behind me. The sensation was strange, tinged with a faint, hazy freedom—freedom, yet full of uncertainty. Every sound, every light, seemed to remind me: Paris was no longer a city of love meant for me.
Kristine had already prepared an apartment for me before I left. Standing before the small door, I gazed inside in silence. The room was not large, but clean, tidy, and quiet—a space belonging solely to me, where I could breathe, where I could cry, and where I could quietly tell myself that this was a new beginning. I stepped inside, pulled my suitcase onto the wooden floor, hearing the soft squeak of its wheels, a sensation both strange and reassuring.
Sitting in the room, the faint light streaming through the window seemed to carve deeper into the empty spaces of my heart. I looked around; every chair, every table, every painting on the wall stood silently as witnesses to my solitude. Outside the window, Paris’s streets were at once bustling and quiet: couples passed quickly, laughter floated briefly in the air, headlights reflected on the wet roads, cafés flickered their warm yellow lights—but none of it could chase away the hollow feeling within me.
Paris—the city of love, where Kael and I had once laughed, where we had held hands along its radiant streets—was now a place to hide. I could still recall his old perfume, the warmth of his laughter on those Parisian nights, the way his eyes looked at me with both tenderness and power. Those memories slipped into my heart, making the pain sharper, but at the same time, fueling my resolve. I had once been in Kael’s arms, once trusted, once hurt… and now, I would no longer be that person. My determination was not just to survive, but to take my revenge.
A pang of sorrow crept into my chest, yet I reminded myself not to weaken. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and told myself: from now on, I will build a new life. I will start over, and when the time comes, I will return to reclaim everything Kael took from me.
The next morning, I woke just after seven. Like my old routine in my parents’ mansion, I reached for my phone. The screen lit up to reveal a flood of messages: Kristine had sent dozens of photos showing the disorder at the Dawson mansion. I froze, a sudden wave of guilt rising—my parents were surely worried because of my unexplained disappearance.
The phone vibrated. I answered, my voice still trembling:
“Kristine, it’s me… are my parents okay?”
Her voice, calm yet reassuring, came through:
“The only daughter of theirs has disappeared… how could they be okay?”
I pressed my lips together, choking back words.
Kristine continued:
“But don’t worry, I’m here. I’ve been with them since you left. I’ve even organized all the photos, messages, notes… Just start your new life in Paris. I’ll update you as soon as I hear anything.”
I could only exhale, a small sense of relief washing over me:
“Thank you… so much, Kristine.”
The call ended, leaving behind an emptiness tinged with a strange sense of security. Since planning my escape to Paris, I had completely changed my communication methods, leaving no trace for anyone to follow. Kristine—the only person I trusted—was the link to the old world I had to leave behind.
I stood up, changed my clothes, and looked in the mirror. My face was tired, but my eyes were determined. I felt my heartbeat quicken at thoughts of revenge, yet alongside it was a quiet struggle: between heartbreak and the desire for freedom.
Today, I would go to another hospital in Paris, seeking the final confirmation of my condition. Only when everything was truly stable, when my mind was no longer haunted by the past, could I begin a new plan—a life of freedom, and a calculated plan of revenge.
Stepping onto the street, the Parisian air bit sharply at my skin, mingling with the scent of night mist and baked bread from nearby cafés. I walked along the empty streets, yellow lights reflecting off the wet asphalt, the sound of cars, footsteps echoing—a city both vibrant and lonely. Suddenly, from a street corner, I noticed a stranger staring intently at me, their silhouette cast onto the sidewalk. I froze for a moment, a prickling sense of unease creeping into my chest. Nothing was certain, yet instinct told me that even here, in hiding, I was not entirely safe.
The smoldering flame of determination in my heart blazed stronger. Paris, once a city of love, would now be the forge of my heart, a place to learn survival, to plan meticulously, and a city I would return to, stronger than ever.
And as I moved forward, my eyes followed every shadow, every alley, sensing that this city—with all its beauty and its coldness—was ready to test me, and I was ready to meet the challenge.