𝐎𝐜𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐄𝐲𝐞𝐬 ✔

𝐎𝐧𝐞

𝐋𝐲𝐫𝐚

The rain greeted me the moment I stepped foot on British soil, a gentle but persistent drizzle that clung to the air, turning it crisp and cool. The sky, an endless stretch of slate grey, hung low, making midday feel like dusk. I shivered slightly, feeling the chill seep through my cream-colored cashmere cardigan, the soft fabric now pressed closer against my body as if it could shield me from the unfamiliar cold. My trolley rattled lightly behind me, and another one was clutched in my other hand, the weight of both pulling at my arms.

As I walked, the hum of the airport around me a constant background, my iPhone 8 rang from somewhere deep within the confines of my bag. I paused, the steady stream of travelers flowing around me, and fished it out. The screen lit up with a name that brought a smile on my face—*Papa.*

"Bonjour, Papa," I greeted him as I pressed the phone to my ear, my voice soft but clear. It was a comfort to speak French again, even if only for a moment.

"Tu es arrivée?" His voice was steady, composed, the kind of tone he always used when he was trying not to let his emotions seep through. I could picture him now, sitting in his office, probably checking his watch, a slight frown creasing his otherwise smooth forehead.

"Oui, je suis ici. It's raining, of course," I added with a small smile, though I knew he couldn't see it.

A faint chuckle came through the line, but it was brief, almost perfunctory. "You didn't lose anything, did you?"

"No, Papa. Everything's here," I replied, glancing back at my luggage. "I'm just getting a taxi to the station now."

"Good. Make sure you're careful. London's not Annecy." He said.

I rolled my eyes slightly, "I know, Papa. I'll be fine."

There was a pause, one that felt heavier than the usual silences between us. "Call me when you reach Oxford," he finally said.

"I will," I promised, just as I spotted a taxi pulling up to the curb. "I have to go now. Je t'embrasse, Papa."

"À bientôt, Lyra." The call ended with a click, and I slipped the phone back into my bag, waving the approaching taxi down with my free hand.

It rolled to a gentle stop in front of me, the driver—a middle-aged man with graying hair and a thick coat—leaning over to roll down the window. "Where to, miss?" His accent was thick.

"The railway station, please," I replied, my own voice sounding softer against the backdrop of his accent with a twinge of French lulls. He nodded, getting out to help with my luggage as I slipped into the back seat. The interior of the taxi was warm, a stark contrast to the damp chill outside. 

As I settled in, the faint sound of AC/DC played through the speakers, the steady beat blending with the rhythm of the raindrops against the windows. London unfolded outside my window as we drove.