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Amei switched on the TV for background noise as she tackled another pile of books. The usual mid-morning chatter filled the room—updates on the weather, a cooking segment, and finally, the news. She was only half-listening until the anchor’s voice caught her attention.

“In the race against climate change, scientists at Harvard are turning to an unexpected solution: chalk. The ambitious project involves launching a balloon into the stratosphere, carrying 600 kilograms of calcium carbonate, which would be sprayed 12 miles above the Earth’s surface. The idea? To reflect sunlight and slow global warming.”

Amei looked up. The screen showed an animated demonstration of the project—a balloon rising into the atmosphere, spraying fine particles into the air. The narration continued, but her focus drifted, caught on a single word: chalk.

Elara loved chalk. Amei smiled faintly, remembering how passionately she used to talk about it—the way she could turn something so mundane into a story of structure, history, and beauty. “It’s not just a rock,” Elara had said once, gesturing dramatically, “it’s a record of time.”

She wasn’t even sure where Elara was these days. The last time they’d spoken was during lockdown. Amei had called to check in, awkward but well-meaning, only to be met with curt responses and a tone that made it clear Elara wanted the conversation over.

She hadn’t tried again after that. It hurt more than she’d expected. Elara could be all or nothing when it came to friendships—brilliant and intense one moment, distant and impenetrable the next. Amei had always known that about her, but knowing didn’t make it any easier.

The news droned on in the background, but Amei reached for the remote and switched off the TV. Her mind was elsewhere, tangled in memories.

She’d first met Elara in a gallery on Southbank, a tiny exhibition tucked away in a brutalist building. It was near Amei’s shared flat, and with her flatmates out for the evening, she had gone alone, more out of boredom than genuine interest. The display wasn’t large—just a few photographs and abstract sculptures, their descriptions dense with scientific jargon.

Amei stood in front of a piece labelled The Geometry of Chaos—a spiraling wire structure that cast intricate, shifting shadows on the wall. She tilted her head, trying to look engaged, though her thoughts were already drifting towards home and her comfy bed.

“Magnificent, isn’t it?”

The voice startled her. She turned to see a dark-haired woman, arms crossed, studying the piece with an intensity that made Amei feel as though she must have missed something obvious. The woman wore a long, flowing skirt, layered necklaces, and a cardigan that looked hand-knitted. Her dark hair was piled into a messy bun, a few strands escaping to frame her face.

“It’s quite interesting,” Amei said. “But I’m not sure I get it.”

“It’s not about getting it. It’s about recognizing the pattern,” the woman replied, stepping closer. She pointed to the shadows on the wall. “See? The curve repeats itself. Infinite, but contained.”

“You sound like you know what you’re talking about.”

“I do,” she said. “Do you?”

Amei laughed, caught off guard. “Not very often. I think I’m more into… messy patterns.”

The woman’s sharp expression softened slightly. “Messy patterns are still patterns.” She smiled. “I’m Elara.”

“Amei,” she replied, returning the smile.

Elara’s gaze dropped, and she nodded toward Amei’s skirt. “I’ve been admiring your skirt. Gorgeous fabric. Where did you get it?”

“Oh, I made it, actually,” Amei felt proud.

Elara raised her eyebrows. “You made it? I’m impressed.”

And that was how it began. A chance meeting that turned into decades of close friendship. They’d left the gallery together, talking all the way to a nearby café.

The first one to find the bar buys the drinks, Darius had said, and they’d all laughed, but it was no laughing matter being lost in those woods.

Siiting on a cushion on the floor surrounded by cardboard shoeboxes and piles of photos and letters, Elara leaned towards the lamp to better see the photograph.  The white bull.  

Lucien had refused when Elara asked him to do a painting of the white bull, and then relented and said he would. But he hadn’t, not that she knew of anyway. The incident had happened the year before the pandemic, the spring of 2019. Not long before they all went their separate ways.  Elara had been visiting her father in Andalucia for his 90th birthday when a neighbour of his had told her about the stone in the woods.  She knew the others would be interested and had invited them over; her father Roland had plenty of room at his finca overlooking the Hozgarganta river, and had no objections.

Darius had wanted to bring those people to see the pyramidal stone in the woods, and Elara was having none of it. I was told in private about that, I shouldn’t have shown anyone, Darius, not even you, she had told him.  Resentfully, Darius had tried to argue his point: that it was for the greater good, shouldn’t be kept secret, and how could he keep it from them anyway, they would know he was hiding something.

You may not be able to find it again, look at the trouble we had. You might get attacked by wild boar or fall off a precipice into the gorge, Amei added, not relishing the idea of sharing the discovery with those people either. She couldn’t help thinking it wouldn’t be a bad thing if those people did disappear without a trace. Darius hadn’t been the same since getting sucked into their cultish clutches.

They had lost their way in the gloomy trackless forest trying to find the stone, impossible to see further than the next few trees.  Increasingly alarmed at the boar tracks and the fading late afternoon light, Elara had suggested they give up and try and retrace their steps, rather than penetrating further down into the woods. And then suddenly Lucien shouted There is it! That’s it! and there it stood, rising above the tree canopy, the sharp grey stone sides contrasting gloriously with the thick tangled foliage.

Rushing towards it, they fanned out circling it, touching it, gazing up at the smooth sides. Solid stone, not constructed with blocks, its purpose indecipherable, astonishingly incongruous to the location.

Look, we need to start making our way back to the car, Elara had said, It’ll be dark in a couple of hours. 
Amei had helped her convince Lucien and Darius who were reluctant to leave, promising another visit. Now we know where it is, she said, although she wasn’t sure if they did know how to find it again. It had appeared while they were lost, after all.

The scramble back to the car had been no less confusing than the walk down to the stone, they only knew they had to go uphill to find the unpaved forest road.

Squinting as they emerged from trees into the sunlight, a spontaneous cheer was immediately silenced at the sight of the white bull lying serenely by the site of the road, glowing like white marble, implacable, wise, and godly.
Is it real? whispered Amei, awestruck.

I wonder if Darius ever did take those people there, Elara wondered. It had never been mentioned again, but then, things started to change after that.  So many things were left unsaid. Elara had never been back, but the white bull had stayed in her mind perhaps more even than the stone pyramid had. I wonder if Lucien ever did that painting of it?  Elara propped the photo up behind a candlestick on the fireplace mantel. Now that she was retired, maybe she’d do a painting of it herself.

Exploring further potential backstory for the characters – to be explored further…

This thread beautifully connects to the lingering themes of fractured ideals, missed opportunities, and the pull of reconnection. Here’s an expanded exploration of the “habitats participatifs” (co-housing communities) and how they tie the characters together while weaving in subtle links to their estrangement and Matteo’s role as the fifth element.

Backstory: The Co-Housing Dream

Habitat Participatif: A Shared Vision

The group’s initial bond, forged through shared values and late-night conversations, had coalesced around a dream: buying land in the Drôme region of France to create a co-housing community. The French term habitat participatif—intergenerational, eco-conscious, and collaborative living—perfectly encapsulated their ideals.

What Drew Them In:

• Amei: Longing for a sense of rootedness and community after years of drifting.
• Elara: Intrigued by the participatory aspect, where decisions were made collectively, blending science and sustainability.
• Darius: Enchanted by the idea of shared creative spaces and a slower, more intentional way of living.
• Lucien: Inspired by the communal energy, imagining workshops where art could flourish outside the constraints of traditional galleries.

The Land in Drôme

They had narrowed their options to a specific site near the village of Crest, not far from Lyon. The land, sprawling and sun-drenched, had an old farmhouse that could serve as a communal hub, surrounded by fields and woods. A nearby river threaded through the valley, and the faint outline of mountains painted the horizon.

The traboules of Lyon, labyrinthine passageways, had captivated Amei during an earlier visit, leaving her wondering if their metaphorical weaving through life could mirror the paths their group sought to create.

The Role of Monsieur Renard

When it came to financing, the group faced challenges. None of them were particularly wealthy, and pooling their resources fell short. Enter Monsieur Renard, whose interest in supporting “projects with potential” brought him into their orbit through Éloïse.

Initial Promise:

• Renard presented himself as a patron of innovation, sustainability, and community projects, offering seed funding in exchange for a minor share in the enterprise.
• His charisma and Éloïse’s insistence made him seem like the perfect ally—until his controlling tendencies emerged.

The Split: Fractured Trust

Renard’s involvement—and Éloïse’s increasing influence on Darius—created fault lines in the group.

1. Darius’s Drift:
   • Darius became entranced by Renard and Éloïse’s vision of community as something deeper, bordering on spiritual. Renard spoke of “energetic alignment” and the importance of a guiding vision, which resonated with Darius’s creative side.
   • He began advocating for Renard’s deeper involvement, insisting the project couldn’t succeed without external backing.
2. Elara’s Resistance:
   • Elara, ever the pragmatist, saw Renard as manipulative, his promises too vague and his influence too broad. Her resistance created tension with Darius, whom she accused of being naive.
   • “This isn’t about community for him,” she had said. “It’s about control.”
3. Lucien’s Hesitation:
   • Lucien, torn between loyalty to his friends and his own fascination with Éloïse, wavered. Her talk of labyrinths and collective energy intrigued him, but he grew wary of her sway over Darius.
   • When Renard offered to fund Lucien’s art, he hesitated, sensing a price he couldn’t articulate.
4. Amei’s Silence:
   • Amei, haunted by her own experiences with manipulation in past relationships, withdrew. She saw the dream slipping away but couldn’t bring herself to fight for it.

Matteo’s Unseen Role

Unbeknownst to the others, Matteo had been invited to join as a fifth partner—a practical addition to balance their idealism. His background in construction and agriculture, coupled with his easygoing nature, made him a perfect fit.

The Missed Connection:

• Matteo had visited the Drôme site briefly, a stranger to the group but intrigued by their vision. His presence was meant to ground their plans, to bring practicality to their shared dream.
• By the time he arrived, however, the group’s fractures were deepening. Renard’s shadow loomed too large, and the guru-like influence of Éloïse had soured the collaborative energy. Matteo left quietly, sensing the dream unraveling before it could take root.

The Fallout: A Fractured Dream

The group dissolved after a final argument about Renard’s involvement:

• Elara refused to move forward with his funding. “I’m not selling my future to him,” she said bluntly.
• Darius, feeling betrayed, accused her of sabotaging the dream out of stubbornness.
• Lucien, caught in the middle, tried to mediate but ultimately sided with Elara.
• Amei, already pulling away, suggested they put the project on hold.

The land was never purchased. The group scattered soon after, their estrangement compounded by the pandemic. Matteo drifted in a different direction, their connection lost before it could form.

Amei’s Perspective: Post-Split Reflection

In the scene where Amei buys candles :

• The shopkeeper’s comments about “seeking something greater” resonate with Amei’s memory of the co-housing dream and how it became entangled with Éloïse and Renard’s influence.
• Her sharper-than-usual reply reflects her lingering bitterness over the way “seeking” led to manipulation and betrayal.

Reunion at the Café: A New Beginning

When the group reunites, the dream of the co-housing project lingers as a symbol of what was lost—but also of what could still be reclaimed. Matteo’s presence at the café bridges the gap between their fractured past and a potential new path.

Matteo’s Role:

• His unspoken connection to the co-housing plan becomes a point of quiet irony: he was meant to be part of their story all along but arrived too late. Now, at the café, he steps into the role he missed years ago—the one who helps them see the threads that still bind them.

Some elements for inspiration as to the backstory of the group and how it could tie to the current state of the story:

Here’s a draft version of the drama surrounding Éloïse and Monsieur Renard (the “strange couple”), incorporating their involvement with Darius, their influence on the group’s dynamic, and the fallout that caused the estrangement five years ago.

The Strange Couple: Éloïse and Monsieur Renard

Winter 2019: Paris, Just Before the Pandemic

The group’s last reunion before their estrangement was supposed to be a celebration—one of those rare moments when their diverging paths aligned. They had gathered in Paris in late December, the city cloaked in gray skies and glowing light. The plan was simple: a few days together, catching up, exploring old haunts, and indulging in the kind of reckless spontaneity that had defined their earlier years.

It was Darius who disrupted the rhythm. He had arrived late to their first dinner, rain-soaked and apologetic, with Éloïse and Monsieur Renard in tow.

First Impressions of Éloïse and Monsieur Renard

Éloïse was striking—lithe, dark-haired, with sharp eyes that seemed to unearth secrets before you could name them. She moved with a predatory grace, her laughter a mix of charm and edge. Renard was her shadow, older and impeccably dressed, his silvery hair and angular features giving him the air of a fox. He spoke little, but when he did, his words had the weight of finality, as if he were accustomed to being obeyed.

“They’re just friends,” Darius said when the others exchanged wary glances. “They’re… interesting. You’ll like them.”

But it didn’t take long for Éloïse and Renard to unsettle the group. At dinner, Éloïse dominated the conversation, her stories wild and improbable—of séances in abandoned mansions, of lost artifacts with strange energies, of lives transformed by unseen forces. Renard’s occasional interjections only added to the mystique, his tone implying he’d seen more than he cared to share.

Lucien, ever the skeptic, found himself drawn to Éloïse despite his instincts. Her talk of energies and symbols resonated with his artistic side, and when she mentioned labyrinths, his attention sharpened.

Elara, in contrast, bristled at their presence. She saw through their mystique, recognizing in Renard the manipulative charisma of someone who thrived on control.

Amei was harder to read, but she watched Éloïse and Renard closely, her silence betraying a guardedness that hinted at deeper discomfort.

Darius’s Growing Involvement

Over the following days, Darius spent more time with Éloïse and Renard, skipping planned outings with the group. He spoke of them with a reverence that was uncharacteristic, praising their insight into things he’d never thought to question.

“They see connections in everything,” he told Amei during a rare moment alone. “It’s… enlightening.”

“Connections to what?” she asked, her tone sharper than she intended.

“Paths, people, purpose,” he replied vaguely. “It’s hard to explain, but it feels… right.”

Amei didn’t press further, but she mentioned it to Elara later. “It’s like he’s slipping into something he can’t see his way out of,” she said.

The Séance

The turning point came during an impromptu gathering at Éloïse and Renard’s rented apartment—a dimly lit space filled with strange objects: glass jars of cloudy liquid, intricate carvings, and an ornate bronze bell hanging above the mantelpiece.

Éloïse had invited the group for what she called “an evening of clarity.” The others arrived reluctantly, wary of what she had planned but unwilling to let Darius face it alone.

The séance began innocuously enough—Éloïse guiding them through what she described as a “journey inward.” She spoke in a low, rhythmic tone, her words weaving a spell that was hard to resist.

Then things took a darker turn. She asked them to focus on the labyrinth she had drawn on the table—a design eerily similar to the map Lucien had found weeks earlier.

“You must find your center,” she said, her voice dropping. “But beware the edges. They’ll show you things you’re not ready to see.”

The room grew heavy with silence. Darius leaned into the moment, his eyes closed, his breathing steady. Lucien tried to focus but felt a growing unease. Elara sat rigid, her scientific mind railing against the absurdity of it all. Amei’s hands gripped the edge of the table, her knuckles white.

And then, the bell rang.

It was faint at first, a distant chime that seemed to come from nowhere. Then it grew louder, resonating through the room, its tone deep and haunting.

“What the hell is that?” Lucien muttered, his eyes snapping open.

Éloïse smiled faintly but said nothing. Renard’s expression remained inscrutable, though his fingers tapped rhythmically against the table, as if counting something unseen.

Elara stood abruptly, breaking the spell. “This is ridiculous,” she said. “You’re playing with people’s minds.”

Darius’s eyes opened, his gaze unfocused. “You don’t understand,” he said softly. “It’s not a game.”

The Fallout

The séance fractured the group.

• Elara: Left the apartment furious, calling Renard a charlatan and vowing never to entertain such nonsense again. Her relationship with Darius cooled, her disappointment palpable.
• Lucien: Became fascinated with the labyrinth and its connection to his art, but he couldn’t shake the unease the séance had left. His conversations with Éloïse deepened in the following days, further isolating him from the group.
• Amei: Refused to speak about what she’d experienced. When pressed, she simply said, “Some things are better left forgotten.”
• Darius stayed with Éloïse and Renard for weeks after the others left Paris, becoming more entrenched in their world. But something changed. When he finally returned, he was distant and cagey, unwilling to discuss what had happened during his time with them.

Lingering Questions

1. What Happened to Darius with Éloïse and Renard?
   • Darius’s silence suggests something traumatic or transformative occurred during his deeper involvement with the couple.
2. The Bell’s Role:
   • The bronze bell that rang during the séance ties into its repeated presence in the story. Was it part of the couple’s mystique, or does it hold a deeper significance?
3. Lucien’s Entanglement:
   • Lucien’s fascination with Éloïse and the labyrinth hints at a lingering connection. Did she influence his art, or was their connection more personal?
4. Éloïse and Renard’s Motives:
   • Were they simply grifters manipulating Darius and others, or were they genuinely exploring something deeper, darker, and potentially dangerous?

Impact on the Reunion

• The group’s estrangement is rooted in the fractures caused by Éloïse and Renard’s influence, compounded by the isolation of the pandemic.
• Their reunion at the café is a moment of reckoning, with Matteo acting as the subtle thread pulling them back together to confront their shared past.

Spring 2024

Matteo was wandering through the streets of Avignon, the spring air heavy with the scent of blooming flowers and sun-warmed stone. The hum of activity surrounded him—shopkeepers arranging displays, the occasional burst of laughter from a café terrace. He walked with no particular destination, drawn more by instinct than intent, until a splash of colour caught his eye.

On the cobblestones ahead, an artist crouched over a sprawling chalk drawing. It was a labyrinthine map, its intricate paths winding across the ground with deliberate precision. Matteo froze, his breath catching. The resemblance to the map he’d found at the vineyard office was uncanny—the same loops and spirals, the same sense of motion and stillness intertwined. But it wasn’t the map itself that held him in place. It was the faces.

Four of them, scattered in different corners of the design, each rendered with surprising detail. Beneath them were names. Matteo felt a shiver crawl up his spine. He knew three of those faces. Amei, Elara, Darius… he had met each of them once, in moments that now felt distant and fragmented. Strangers to him, but not quite.

The artist shifted, brushing dark, rain-damp curls from his forehead. His scarf, streaked faintly with paint, hung loosely around his neck. Matteo stepped closer, his curiosity overpowering any hesitation. “Is that your name?” he asked, gesturing toward the face labeled Lucien.

The artist straightened, his hand resting lightly on a piece of green chalk. He studied Matteo for a moment, his expression unreadable. “Yes,” he said simply, his voice low but clear.

Matteo crouched beside him, tracing the edge of the map with his eyes. “It’s incredible,” he said. “The detail, the connections. Why the faces?”

Lucien hesitated, glancing at the names scattered across his work. “Because that’s how it is,” he said softly. “We’re all here, but… not together.”

Matteo tilted his head, intrigued. “You mean you’ve drifted?”

Lucien nodded, his gaze dropping to the chalk in his hand. “Something like that. Paths cross, then they don’t. People take their turns.”

Matteo studied the map again, its intertwining lines seeming both chaotic and deliberate. The faces stared back at him, and he felt the pull of the map he no longer carried. “Do you think paths can lead back?” he asked, his voice thoughtful.

Lucien glanced at him, something flickering briefly in his eyes. “Sometimes. If you follow them long enough.”

Matteo smiled faintly, standing. His curiosity shifted as he turned his attention to the artist himself. “Do you know where I can find absinthe?” he asked.

Lucien raised an eyebrow. “Absinthe? Haven’t heard anyone ask for that in a while.”

“Just something I’ve been chasing,” Matteo replied lightly, his tone almost playful.

Lucien gestured vaguely toward a café down the street. “You might try there. They keep the old things alive.”

“Thanks,” Matteo said, offering a nod. He took a few steps away but paused, turning back to the artist still crouched over his map. “It’s a good drawing,” he said. “Hope your paths cross again.”

Lucien didn’t reply, but his hand moved back to the chalk, drawing a faint line that connected two of the faces. Matteo watched for a moment longer before continuing down the street, the memory of the map and the names lingering in his mind like an unanswered question. Paths crossed, he thought, but maybe they didn’t always stay apart.

For the first time in days, Matteo felt a strange sense of possibility. The map was gone, but perhaps it had done what it was meant to do—leave its mark.

It was the chalkapocalypse, which in actual fact occurred so close to Elara’s coming retirement that it hardly need have bothered her in the slightest, that had sparked her interest. She, like many of her colleagues, had quickly stockpiled the Japanese chalk, and she had more than enough to see out the remaining term of her employment at the university.  Not that she wanted to stay at Warwick, she’d had enough of university politics and funding cuts, not to mention the dreary midlands weather.

When at last the day had come, she’d sold her mediocre semi detached suburban house with its, more often than not, dripping shrubbery and rarely if ever used white metal patio table and chairs, and made the move, with the intention of pursuing her research at her leisure. In the warmth of a Tuscan sun.

Often the words of her friend and colleague Tom came to her, as she settled into the farmhouse and familiarised herself with the land and the locals.

Physics is a process of getting stuck. Blackboards are the best tool for getting unstuck. You do most of your calculations on paper. Then, when you reach a dead end, you go to the blackboard and share the problem with a colleague. But here’s the funny thing. You often solve the problem yourself in the process of writing it out.  You don’t imagine something first and then write it down. It’s through the act of writing that ideas make themselves known. Scientists at blackboards have thoughts that wouldn’t come if they just stood there, with their arms folded.

It was entirely down to Tom’s words that Elara had painted the walls of the barn with blackboard paint, and stocked it with the remains of her Hagoromo chalk hoard, as well as samples of every other available chalk.  She had also purchased a number of books on the history of chalk. She’d had no intention of rushing, and retirement provided a relaxed environment for going at her own pace, unfettered by the relentless demands of students and classes.  It was a project to savour, luxuriate in, amuse herself with.

When Florian had arrived, she was occupied with showing him around, and before long setting him to tasks that needed doing, and her chalk project had remained on a back burner. He’d asked her about the blackboards in the barn, and wondered if she was planning on giving lectures.

Laughing, Elara said no, that was the last thing she ever wanted to do again. She shared with him what Tom had said, about the ideas flowing during the process of writing.

“And while that makes perfect sense in any medium, not just chalk, it’s the chalk itself ….” Elara smiled. “Well, you don’t want to hear all the technical details. And I wouldn’t want to spill the beans before I’m sure.”

“It does make sense,” Florian replied, “To just write and then the ideas will flow. I’ve been wanting to write a book, but I never know how to start, and I’m not even sure what I want to write about. But perhaps I should just start writing.” Grinning, he added, “Probably not with chalk, though.”

“That’s the spirit, just make a start. You never know what may come of it. And it can be fun, you know, and illuminating in ways you didn’t expect. I used to write stories with a few friends….” Elara’s voice trailed off uncomfortably, as if a cloud had obscured the sun.

Florian noticed her unexpected discomfiture, and tactfully changed the subject.  We all have pasts we don’t want to talk about.  “Is the sun sufficiently past the yard arm for a glass of wine?” he asked.  “What is a yard arm, anyway?”

“A yard is a spar on a mast from which sails are set. It may be constructed of timber or steel or from more modern materials such as aluminium or carbon fibre. Although some types of fore and aft rigs have yards, the term is usually used to describe the horizontal spars used on square rigged sails…”

“Once a lecturer, always a lecturer, eh?” Florian teased.

“Sorry!” Elara said with a rueful look. ” I’d love a glass of wine.”

The luxury of an afternoon nap was one of the finer pleasures of retirement, particularly during the heat of an Italian summer.  Elara stretched like a cat on the capacious sofa, pulling a couple of kilim covered cushions into place to support her neck.  She had only read a few pages of her book about the Cerne Abbas giant, the enigmatic chalk figure on a hill in Dorset, before her eyes slid closed and the book dropped with a thud onto her chest.

The distant clang of a bell woke her several hours later, although she remained motionless, unable to open her eyes at first.  Not one to recall dreams as a rule, Elara was surprised at the intensity of the dream she was struggling to awaken from, and the clarity of the details, and the emotion.  In the dream she was at the CERN conference, a clamour and cacophony of colleagues, some familiar to her in waking life, some characters complete strangers but familiar to her in the dream. She had felt agitation at the noise and at the cold coffee, and an indescribable feeling when Florian somehow appeared by her side, who was supposed to be in Tuscany, whispering in her ear that her mother had died and she was to make the funeral arrangements.

Elara’s mother had died when she was just a child, barely eight years old. She was no longer sure if she remembered her, or if her memories were from the photographs and anecdotes she’d seen and heard in the following years.  Her older sister Vanessa had said darkly that she was lucky and well out of it, to not have had to put up with her when she was a teenager, like she had. Vanessa was ten years older than Elara, and had assumed the role of mother.  She explained later that she’d let Elara run wild because she didn’t want to be bossy and domineering, but admitted that she should perhaps have reined her younger sister in a bit more than she had.

Again, the distant bell clanged.  Shaking her head as if to dispel the memories the dream had conjured, Elara rose from the sofa and walked out on to the terrace.  Across the yard she could see Florian, replacing the old bell on the new gate post.

“Sorry, did I wake you?” he called. “I had a bit of linen round the clanger so it didn’t make a noise while I screwed it to the post, but it slipped.  Sorry,” he repeated.

Squinting in the bright sun, Elara strolled over to him, saying, “Honestly, don’t worry, I was glad to wake up. What a dream I had!  That’s great Florian, nice job.”

Sat. Nov. 30, 2024 – before the meeting

The afternoon light slanted through the tall studio windows, thin and watery, barely illuminating the scattered tools of Lucien’s trade. Brushes lay in disarray on the workbench, their bristles stiff with dried paint. The smell of turpentine hung heavy in the air, mingling with the faint dampness creeping in from the rain. He stood before the easel, staring at the unfinished painting, brush poised but unmoving.

The scene on the canvas was a lavish banquet, the kind of composition designed to impress: a gleaming silver tray, folds of deep red velvet, fruit piled high and glistening. Each detail was rendered with care, but the painting felt hollow, as if the soul of it had been left somewhere else. He hadn’t painted what he felt—only what was expected of him.

Lucien set the brush down and stepped back, wiping his hands on his scarf without thinking. It was streaked with paint from hours of work, colors smeared in careless frustration. He glanced toward the corner of the studio, where a suitcase leaned against the wall. It was packed with sketchbooks, a bundle wrapped in linen, and clothes hastily thrown in—things that spoke of neither arrival nor departure, but of uncertainty. He wasn’t sure if he was leaving something behind or preparing for an escape.

How had it come to this? The thought surfaced before he could stop it, heavy and unrelenting. He had asked himself the same question many times, but the answer always seemed too elusive—or too daunting—to pursue. To find it, he would have to follow the trails of bad choices and chance encounters, decisions made in desperation or carelessness. He wasn’t sure he had the courage to look that closely, to untangle the web that had slowly wrapped itself around his life.

He turned his attention back to the painting, its gaudy elegance mocking him. He wondered if the patron who had commissioned it would even notice the subtle imperfections he had left, the faint warping of reflections, the fruit teetering on the edge of overripeness. A quiet rebellion, almost invisible. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

His friends had once known him as someone who didn’t compromise. Elara would have scoffed at the idea of him bending to anyone’s expectations. Why paint at all if it isn’t your vision? she’d asked once, her voice sharp, her black coffee untouched beside her. Amei, on the other hand, might have smiled and said something cryptic about how all choices, even the wrong ones, led somewhere meaningful. And Darius—Lucien couldn’t imagine telling Darius. The thought of his disappointment was like a weight in his chest. It had been easier not to tell them at all, easier to let the years widen the distance between them. And yet, here he was, preparing to meet them again.

The clock on the far wall chimed softly, pulling him back to the present. It was getting late. Lucien walked to the suitcase and picked it up, its weight pulling slightly on his arm. Outside, the rain had started, tapping gently against the windowpanes. He slung the paint-streaked scarf around his neck and hesitated, glancing once more at the easel. The painting loomed there, unfinished, like so many things in his life. He thought about staying, about burying himself in the work until the world outside receded again. But he knew it wouldn’t help.

With a deep breath, Lucien stepped out into the rain, the suitcase rattling softly behind him. The café wasn’t far, but it felt like a journey he might not be ready to take.

Amei:

The flat was smaller than she’d remembered when she first viewed it, but it was hers—as long as she could manage the rent. She glanced at her phone to check the time. That guy, Felix, from the hospital would be here soon to see the place. He’d seemed really nice when they’d chatted—just looking for a base while working nearby.

The move had been a necessity; the old house had always felt big, but when Tabitha moved out and Amei’s relationship ended shortly after, the echoes became unbearable. Downsizing had been practical—a good move financially and a fresh start. Or so she kept telling herself.

Unpacking was slow. Some of her larger furniture had gone into storage, and she’d thrown out or donated a lot too. It was truly amazing how much one accumulated. The boxes she’d brought were filled with relics of her life—mostly functional, but also a few cartons of books, carefully wrapped ceramics she couldn’t part with, lengths of fabric she would probably never use but were just so beautiful, unframed art she hadn’t found space for yet, and a stack of notebooks dating back years. She pushed herself up from the floor and stretched, her knees stiff from crouching too long.

As she reached into another box, her hand paused on a photo album. She pulled it out and flipped it open, the pages falling naturally to a picture of her and her friends—Lucien, Elara, Darius, and herself, standing in a loose semicircle outside a weathered door. They were younger, glowing with the easy confidence of people who still believed they had endless time. A bell hung from the lintel above them, ornate and dark, its surface catching the light in the photo. Amei couldn’t remember the context or who had taken the photo, but the sight of it tugged at something deep.

The bell. Why did that stand out?

She traced the edge of the photo with her thumb. Lucien had his arm draped around her shoulder, his eyes squinting into the sun. Elara was mid-laugh, her head tilted back, carefree and radiant. Darius stood slightly apart, his gaze intense, as though the photo had captured him mid-thought. They’d all been so close back then. Closer than she’d ever been with anyone since.

The doorbell buzzed, snapping her back to the present. She slipped the photo back in the album and straightened up. Felix was punctual, at least.

It was cold in Kent, much colder than Elara was used to at home in the Tuscan olive groves, but Mrs Lovejoy kept the guest house warm enough. On site at Samphire Hoe was another matter, the wind off the sea biting into her despite the many layers of clothing.  It had been Florian’s idea to take the Mongolian hat with her.  Laughing, she’d replied that it might come in handy if there was a costume party. Trust me, you’re going to need it, he’d said, and he was right.  It had been a present from Amei, many years ago, but Elara had barely worn it.  It wasn’t often that she found herself in a place cold enough to warrant it.

In a fortuitous twist of fate, Florian had asked if he could come and stay with her for awhile to find his feet after the tumultuous end of a disastrous relationship.  It came at a time when Elara was starting to realise that there was too much work for her alone keeping the old farmhouse in order.  Everyone wants to retire to the country but nobody thinks of all the work involved, at an age when one prefers to potter about, read books, and take naps.

Florian was a long lost (or more correctly never known) distant relative, a seventh cousin four times removed on her paternal side.  They had come into contact while researching the family, comparing notes and photographs and family anecdotes.  They became friends, finding they had much in common, and Elara was pleased to have him come to stay with her. Likewise, Florian was more than willing to help around the beautiful old place, and found it conducive to his writing.  He spent the mornings gardening, decorating or running errands, and the afternoons tapping away at the novel he’d been inspired to start, sitting at the old desk in front of the French windows.

If it hadn’t been for Florian, Elara wouldn’t have accepted the invitation to join the chalk project. He had settled in so well, already had a working grasp of Italian, and got on well with her neighbours. She could leave him to look after everything and not worry about a thing.

Pulling the hat down over her ears, Elara ventured out into the early November chill.  Mrs Lovejoy was coming up the path to the guesthouse, having been out to the corner shop. “I say, that’s a fine hat you have there, that’ll keep your cockles warm!”  Mrs Lovejoy was bareheaded, wearing only a cardigan.

“It was a gift,” Elara told her, “I haven’t worn it much.  A friend bought it for me years ago when we were in Mongolia.”

“Very nice, I’m sure,” replied the landlady, trying to remember where Mongolia was.

“Yes, she was nice,” Elara said wistfully. “We lost contact somehow.”

“Ah yes, well these things happen,” Mrs Lovejoy said. “People come into your life and then they go.  Like my Bert…”

“Must go or I’ll be late!” Elara had already heard all about Bert a number of times.

“Well, this is a surprise,” Amei said, smiling at the phone.

“Hi, Mum,” came the cheerful reply, slightly muffled by background noise. “I thought I’d catch you before it got too late over there.”

“You’ve caught me all right. I’d nearly forgotten I had a daughter. It’s been so long.”

Tabitha laughed lightly. “Sorry about that … things have been… hectic.”

“Hectic in Goa or hectic in your head?” Amei teased, though she knew the answer. Her daughter had always thrived in chaos, diving into life with a zeal Amei envied.

“Both I guess. The school’s been keeping me busy, and, well, India has a way of throwing surprises at you.”

“I’d expect nothing less.”

“Speaking of surprises,” Tabitha continued, her voice shifting slightly, “I thought I saw one of your old buddies at the airport the other day. I was dropping a friend off … what’s his name? Daria?”

Amei frowned and sat up a little straighter. “Darius? At the airport? I’ve not seen him for a few years now. Are you sure?”

“Well, not completely sure. He was in some kind of weird get up, like a disguise … a big hat, sunglasses, scarf. ”

“That’s very … odd,” said Amei. She felt a tightening in her belly but managed to keep her voice level.

Her daughter’s laugh was soft.. “I guess it was just a feeling. He looked like he was trying not to be noticed. He saw me and sort of hurried away.” She paused. “I remembered something… wasn’t Darius the one that turned up with that strange couple? You know, the ones everyone was obsessed with for a while? Like gurus or something?”

The memory was sharp and cold. “Yes,” she said eventually. “Darius often had waifs and strays tagging along.”

“There was a falling out or something? You never did tell me.”

“Nothing to tell really.”

There was a silence. “Well, it was definitely weird,” Tabitha said at last. “Anyway, just thought I’d mention it. Maybe it wasn’t even him.”

“Maybe,” Amei murmured but the unease lingered long after the call ended.

Lucien pulled his suitcase through the rain-slick streets of Paris, the wheels rattling unevenly over the cobblestones. The rain fell in silver threads, blurring the city into streaks of light and shadow. His scarf, already streaked with paint, hung heavy and damp around his neck. Each step toward the café felt weighted, though he couldn’t tell if it was the suitcase behind him or the memories ahead.

The note he sent his friends had been simple. Sarah Bernhardt Café, November 30th , 4 PM. No excuses this time! Writing it had felt strange, as though summoning ghosts he wasn’t sure were ready to return. And now, with the café just blocks away, Lucien wasn’t sure if he wanted them to. Five years had passed since the four of them had last been together. He had told himself he needed this meeting—closure, perhaps—but a part of him still doubted.

He paused beneath a bookstore awning, the rain tracing fractured lines down the glass. His suitcase leaned against his leg, its weight pressing into him. Inside: a crumpled heap of clothes that smelled faintly of turpentine and the damp studio he had left behind, sketchbooks filled with forgotten drawings, and a small bundle wrapped in linen. Something he wasn’t ready to let go of—or couldn’t. He hadn’t decided yet if he was coming back or going away.

Lucien reached into his pocket and pulled out his last sketchbook. Flipping absently through its pages, he stopped at an old drawing of Darius, leaning over the edge of a rickety bridge, hand outstretched toward something unseen. He could still hear Darius’s voice: If you’re afraid of falling, you’ll never know what’s waiting. Lucien had scoffed then, but now the words lingered, uncomfortable in their truth.

The café came into view, its warm light pooling onto the wet street. Through the rain-speckled windows, he saw the familiar brass fixtures and etched glass, unchanged by time. He stepped inside, the warmth closing around him, and made his way to the corner table. Their table.

Setting the suitcase down, he folded into the chair and opened his sketchbook to a blank page. His pencil hovered. Outside, the rain fell softly, its rhythm steady against the glass. Inside, Lucien’s chest felt heavy. To make it go away, he started to scratch faint lines across the page.

The train rattled on, its rhythm almost hypnotic. Amei rested her forehead against the cool glass, watching the countryside blur into a smudge of grey fields and skeletal trees. The rain had not let up the entire trip, each station bringing her closer to Paris—and to the friends she had once thought she would never lose.

She unfolded a letter in her lap, its creased edges softened by too many readings. So old-school to have sent a letter, and yet so typical of Lucien. The message was brief, just a handful of words in his familiar scrawl: Sarah Bernhardt Cafe, November 30th , 4 PM. No excuses this time! Below the terse instruction, there was an ink smudge. Perhaps, she imagined, a moment of second-guessing himself before sealing the envelope? Vulnerability had never been Lucien’s strength.

Catching her reflection in the window, Amei frowned at her hair, unruly from the long journey.  She reached for the scarf draped loosely around her neck—a gift from Elara, given years ago. It had been a token from one of their countless shared adventures, and despite everything that had unfolded since, she had never been able to let it go. She twisted the soft fabric around her fingers, its familiar texture reassuring her, before tying it over her hair.

At her feet sat a well-worn tote bag, weighed down with notebooks. It was madness to have brought so many. Maybe it was reflexive, a habit ingrained from years of recording her travels, as though every journey demanded she tell the story of her life. Or perhaps it was a subconscious offering—she couldn’t show up empty-handed, not after five years of silence.

Five years had slipped by quickly! What had started as the odd missed call or unanswered email, and one too many postponed plans had snowballed into a silence none of them seemed to know how to bridge.

Darius had tried. His postcards arrived sporadically, cryptic glimpses of his nomadic life. Amei had never written back, though she had saved the postcards, tucking them between the pages of her notebooks like fragments of a lost map.

Lucien, on the other hand, had faded into obscurity, his absence feeling strangely like betrayal. Amei had always believed he’d remain their anchor, the unspoken glue holding them together. When he didn’t, the silence felt personal, even though she knew it wasn’t. And yet, it was Lucien who had insisted on this reunion.

The train hissed into the station, jolting Amei from her thoughts. The platform was a flurry of umbrellas and hurried footsteps. Hoisting her bag onto her shoulder, she navigated the throng, letting the rhythm of the city wash over her. Paris felt foreign and familiar all at once.

By the time she reached her hotel, the rain had seeped through her boots. She stood for a long moment in the tiny room—the best she could find on her budget—and gazed at her reflection in the cracked mirror. A quiet sense of inevitability settled over her. They would have all changed, of course. How could they not? Yet there was something undeniably comforting about the fact that their paths, no matter how far they had strayed, had led them back here—to Paris, to the Sarah Bernhardt Café.