scraps.

violin.

the melody is faint due to the city hustle, and yet his ear catches it immediately. how could it not? he has trained himself to do exactly that for years. to capture the ever fading vestiges of her presence. her fragrance, her voice. her song.

several times, he has believed to have discerned her reddish messy hair somewhere in the crowd. but he had always been mistaken. the unfortunate owner of the hair was never her. they had all had too neat, too light or too short hair. or were simply the wrong person.

but this time, this time he’s sure it is her. it is her melody he can hear, unmistakable. who else would have played it? she composed it for him. he had been the only person she played it for, her deft fingers flying over the violin’s bridge; a permanent smile on her face.

even after all this time, he can remember her so well. he only has to close his eyes to invoke her image. bright blue eyes, fiery hair. it was always so messy, tucked into a bun by some paintbrush she’d found lying around. and her smile. oh, her smile.

he’s closer to the source of the music now. the sweet notes rise from the violin that’s not far ahead of him. and he knows the song is ending, and he has to find her before it does, otherwise he won’t be able to.

he looks around frantically, scanning the crowd for her. but he can’t find her, and when the melody ends with a small flourish, his shoulders deflate a little. he was so close, so close this time. but now he has lost her again.

there is a small place a few yards from where he is and he decides to make his way there. that way he can mourn the failure of his search yet again. however, as he sits down on a bench, he spots her. she is facing away from him, but he recognizes her immediately, even after nine years. her hair is loose- still messy, but not in its usual bun and her paintbrush is tucked behind her ear.

nine years in search of her, and now he has finally found her.

hesitantly, he shuffles towards her.

“marguerite ?” his voice is shaky. “ma chère, êtes-vous?” she whips around.

“pierre ?” she whispers doubtfully. he slowly nods. “pierre!” she exclaims  and flings herself in his arms. when she raises her head, pierre’s shirt is stained with tears. not that he cares.

“mon chéri, why didn’t you look for me?” she inquires, eyes full of tears. he thinks she still looks beautiful. after almost a decade, she hasn’t aged a day. she looks more mature, the lines of her face more defined, her features sharper than the ones of the seventeen-year-old he used to know. but she is still the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.

“oh, i did, ma adoré marguerite.” pierre smiles. “i’ve searched for you for years. i’ve never stopped looking for you.” she hides her head in his chest once more, and he buries his nose in her hair. she smells of gardenias and wood and home.

“i’m sorry, i’m sorry. they forced me to go away, i didn’t want to go. they made me.” she weeps into his chest. he puts a finger under her chin to make her look up into his eyes.

“it’s fine. whatever your parents did, it’s alright.” he beams. “hell, whatever you did, it’s alright. they don’t have power over you anymore, and that’s what matters. i love you, marguerite.”

her lips are parted to answer, but she doesn’t get to do it. a small hand pulls the fabric of her sweater down.

“qui est cet homme, maman?” a little girl with fiery hair asks, and his world comes tumbling down.

of course she was married by now. she hadn’t had to wait for him. she’d probably married one of the suitors her parents approved of. someone who had the looks and the money. he was too late.

he staggers back. “of course,” his voice is raspy. “you’re married. i’m sorry to have importuned you, marguerite. i won’t do it again in the future.”

but as he is turning around, he notices something that makes him freeze. the little girl’s eyes... they are his.

pierre counts. the girl looks no older than eight or nine. he has last seen marguerite  around nine years ago. eight years plus nine months... it all fits.

he opens and closes his mouth, speechless. he takes air and tries again, but his mind is blank. she is his. and marguerite’s. he has a daughter.

when it becomes clear pierre isn’t going to speak anytime soon, marguerite does.

“she’s yours.” she confirms softly “i was a three weeks pregnant when my parents forced me to leave you. i found out half a month later.”

pierre takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. it’s hard to assimilate the news. “what’s her name?”

the little girl steps forward and holds out her left hand for him to shake.

“i’m amélie. who are you?” he’s surprised at his daughter’s boldness, but recovers fast.

“pierre.” he says, shaking her hand. he wonders why she didn’t hold out her right hand, but his question is answered soon enough. amélie turns to her mother, holding up the violin case in her right hand.

“how did i play, maman?” marguerite beams, but pierre beats her to it.

“it was the most beautiful thing i have ever heard.” and then he looks at his lover, and their eyes say everything.

in a small place in france, a man found the woman he had loved and lost. but he found more than what he was looking for. he found a little girl with hair the color of fire and his eyes and passion for the instrument that had driven her parents together. in a small place  in france, a man found his family.

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so there it is. first story on scraps. i really hope you liked it (if you did, don't let your finger hesitate on the 'vote' button) i will continue to upload whenever i can (which will probably be very often; i'm on holidays). please don't hesitate to tell me if there are any mistakes (of any kind: gramatical or just plot holes. take into account i'm not from the us nor from england, so i might make some british english/american english mistakes :)

i would like to make just a teeny tiny request, which will be maybe two votes and two comments for next chapter? pretty pretty please? feedback is very much appreciated :) 

love you guys! xo