Stellina

Art of Kintsugi

He remained in the entryway of Madame Riviere's house, straightening his back as if hoping to somehow appear more threatening. He shoved his hands defiantly in his pockets, focusing on the woman in the living room, knitting in hand, smirk plastered to her face. Yet inside, his entire body trembled, sweat beading on the back of his neck.

"Ah, Luka, darling. It's been quite some time. I was starting to worry you'd been shipped back to Germany," Madame Riviere said, her words curling deviously like the edges of wax paper set aflame.

Luka gulped, attempting to swallow the lump in his throat away. Stay strong. "Yes, well, I've had some... thoughts, lately."

She raised her eyebrows, setting a cup of tea on the end table. Her gaze fell on Luka, searching him. A soft chuckle interrupted the silence. "What a nice young man you've turned into, Luka," she murmured. "Your mother would have been so proud. One might actually mistake you for a grown man, except those dimples give you away. And the way you talk in that ridiculous German accent."

Luka dug his heels further into the wooden floor, trying to control the violent trembling that threatened to overtake him. "I'm not sure I can do this." He forced the words out of his mouth before he could stumble over them. Madame Riviere narrowed her eyes, knitting even more furiously than before. He continued on. "I want to find Stella as much as you do," he blurted. "I just--"

Madame Riviere rose from the olive-colored, velvet couch, swinging around her shoulder a purple wrap with little tassels on the end that reminded Luka of the lavender fields that used to flourish by his house. "It's the girl, isn't it?"

His gaze fell to the floor as he absentmindedly rubbed the scar on his right hand. "Let me teach you how to throw a punch next time, darling. Hit them, Luka, hit them back." He shoved back his mother's voice. "I think I might... I think I--"

She rolled her eyes like a typical schoolgirl. "I swear, Luka Fuhrmann, if you say that you love her--"

"I care about her," Luka interjected. "I just... can't hurt her. I can't use her like this."

Madame Riviere shook her head. "Well, darling, you should have thought of that before," she hissed. "Because now either way, she is going to get hurt, no matter what you do."

And before Luka could even respond, he saw a glimpse of her fist piercing the space between them, smacking him right in the eye. He flinched, stumbling backward into a vase of flowers and shattering it onto the floor. He steadied himself by leaning against the wall, nearly slamming his hand into a picture of Madame Riviere, alone by the Marseilles shore.

His jaw clenched, he locked his gaze on the woman before him. "Untuck your thumb, Luka. Throw the punch, quick and hard." He resisted the urge to rub his eye, refusing to fuel even more satisfaction in those flaming amber eyes.

"It never gets old," she chuckled, yet it was more strained this time. "Maybe one of these days you'll actually hit me back."

"I don't hit people."

A snarl unfurled at her lips. "I wouldn't hit them either if they didn't give me a reason to."

Luka stepped forward in a desperate attempt to exhibit some bravery, his gaze smoldering. "I want to find her, too," he said. "But you have to promise me nothing will happen to Lina or her family."

She rubbed her knuckles, glancing at the bruise now forming on his face. "You're too much like your mother, you know that? Tough on the outside, yet gentler than a lamb on the inside." When he didn't respond, she added, "Now, tell me what you've learned about Stella."

Luka inhaled, his breath catching in his throat. He yearned to shrink into the shadows as his gaze met her icy, unmoving eyes. He then pictured those of his mother, her gentle eyes that shimmered like the sparkling waters of a babbling brook, her gentle eyes that would glimmer with concern as her fingers ran across a new bruise on his cheek. Her eyes that glistened with tears as she fingered the gold locket in her hand.