MON LIVRE

Two Weeks

January 15th, 1876

It’s strange how time can pass so quickly. I only have two weeks left before I leave for training, and every day feels like a blend of sweetness and sorrow. I’ve been setting aside my chores lately, just so I can spend more time with my family and friends. The work will still be here when I’m gone, I suppose, but these moments—laughing around the table, listening to my brothers chatter on about their day, watching Fiona bat at my sister’s yarn ball—these won’t last forever.

My mother’s been watching me closely, her smile softer than usual. Yesterday, as I sat beside her, she put her hand on my shoulder and told me, “When you come back, I’ll find you a good wife, Marchel. An army man like you—who wouldn’t want to marry such a brave, honorable soul?”

I couldn’t help but laugh, though her words left a small ache in my chest. A good wife… a home… maybe even children someday. It all sounds so distant, almost like a dream. But if it brings my mother peace, I’ll let her dream it for me.

And Fiona—oh, Fiona has grown so much in these past months. She’s white as snow now, sleek and proud, with a sassy little attitude to match. She’ll swat at my hand if I try to pet her when she’s not in the mood, only to curl up against me moments later, as if she couldn’t bear to be anywhere else. I’m going to miss her; I’m going to miss everything here. The smell of fresh bread, the creak of the floorboards under my boots, the laughter and warmth of my family—every single thing. But I keep telling myself it’s all for the better, isn’t it? This sacrifice will give them a future, a life of security. I’ll do it for them, even if it breaks my heart.

I couldn't stop thinking about him today. During my class, I'd drifted off into my thoughts, picturing Marchel sitting by the fire with Fiona, his family laughing in the background, the peacefulness of the farm wrapping around him like a warm blanket. I imagined his hands, rough from work yet gentle as he stroked Fiona’s fur, his gaze faraway as he thought of the life he was leaving behind.

''Are you paying attention, miss?" my professor’s sharp voice had jolted me from my daydream, and I'd barely managed to stammer out an apology before the lecture resumed. But my mind kept wandering back to Marchel, no matter how hard I tried to focus. It was like he was pulling me across time, drawing me into his world, making me feel every longing, every bittersweet goodbye.

When I got home that evening, I opened my journal, determined to pour out my feelings.

Dear Marchel, I couldn't stop thinking about you today. It’s strange—I feel like I know you, like you’re more than just words on a page. I can almost picture you, your thoughtful eyes, your steady hands as you take care of Fiona, as you laugh with your family. You don’t realize how much it means to me that you’ve shared these moments with me. You’ve made me care for people I’ve never met, a family that lived over a century before mine. And Fiona, your beautiful, sassy Fiona—I imagine her sometimes, prancing around your house, white as snow, with a little attitude that must make you laugh.

Today, I was almost thrown out of my class for daydreaming about you. I know it sounds ridiculous, but I wish I could meet you, even for just a moment. Sometimes, I wonder if your family is still here, maybe in some corner of this town, descendants of yours, living lives they owe in part to you. Would they understand if I came looking for them? Maybe your great-granddaughter or some distant relative could tell me what happened to you. Did you come back safe from the army? Did you marry? Did you build the life your mother dreamed of for you?

I can’t help but wonder what would happen if we met—if somehow, against all odds, time would bend and let us be in the same moment. I think I’d recognize you in an instant. I’d know you by the way you speak about the things you love, by the gentle strength you put into everything you do. But for now, all I can do is read your words and hope that wherever you are, you found peace and happiness.

Until next time,

Your friend

As I closed my journal, I sighed, a bittersweet smile on my face. It was almost like I'd spoken to him, shared my day with him, let him know my hopes and fears. My heart ached with a strange sense of loss, as if I were mourning something I'd never had—a chance to truly know him.

Fiona padded up beside me, curling into a cozy ball on the bed, purring softly. I reached out, stroking her soft fur. “You know, Fiona,” I whispered, “do you think Marchel’s Fiona was anything like you? Maybe she was just as sassy, just as sweet. And maybe, just maybe, she came back for me, from a place long past, just to remind me of him.”

Fiona let out a soft meow, as if in agreement, and I laughed, feeling a warmth settle in my heart. I didn’t know if it was silly to believe in such things, but it didn’t matter. This small connection across time, this shared love for a cat, for simple moments of joy—it was enough for now.

AN: Hey, Thank you for reading. If you find any mistakes please do let me know.