Stories the Butterfly Told Me

5. Paris

Chapter 5.

I did not understand it. Why did my mind keep playing the song from the butterfly's story over and over? When had I ever even heard that song? YHM 36T that was the car number I imagined that black Audi had had, why this number? And why was I so certain of this? Beige, white, black couch - what was the different? Life was too short for such insignificant decisions, but maybe it was minor details as this one that made life in total? Maybe life was just full of small decisions and experiences, happy as sad, insignificant as significant?

The sky had turned dark - almost pitch black - I could still see the butterfly sitting there in my hand. It seemed to be disappearing here in the dark, as maybe its time was running out. The temperature still had not changed the slightest bit, but I did not get the chance to notice, as the butterfly started whispering once again.

I take a sip of my café au lait. It is perfectly hot and the delicious scent of coffee fills my nose. Unconsciously I smile, as it reminds me of those hot summer days on the country, when my granny made coffee in the morning and would sit on her porch looking at the sunrise, waiting for us to wake up. Waiting for time to pass, but still enjoying every little moment. It seems so long ago - where did the time go? How many cups of coffees have not been drinken since then? How many sunrises have not been watched and admired? I close my eyes and enjoy how the sun is kissing the skin on my cheeks, my arms and make it tingle under its touch. I feel warm and safe even though several conversations are being lead eagerly around me all in fluent French. I kind of like the sound of it though, there is something special about it - not understanding another language to its fullest. I wish I had continued studying French, it is such a beautiful language, I think, as a little lady starts giggling, while telling some funny story in French I guess. Guess. Guess. Guess. Guess.

It is weird how a word seems to change when you have said it multiple times. Guess. Guess. The sound of it becomes strange. Coffee. Co-ffee. Maybe one should not think at such things, I decide, as I finish my morning coffee and get up after paying.

I cannot help smiling, while I head through the small lanes of Paris in my summer dress. Paris. Paris. Paris. Life. All those adorable small shops are opening in every street I enter. Curiously I stop up outside a tiny very old bookstore where from music is floating. Probably playing from an old gramophone, since the sound is a little crackling and the song sounds like something from the twenties. I study the shop window, where beautiful and elegant cursive gold letters are forming 'La Boutique du Livre' on the glass and for some reason it feels like I am being drawn to the entrance of the shop. Inside it is darker and I hear a bell ring announcing the entrance of yet another curious young soul, as I open the door. As my eyes adjust to the darker room, I notice the music is louder and clearer in here, but the source from which the music floats is definitely not in here. It comes from deeper inside the store.

Books, books, books. Everywhere. I have never seen so many books gathered in a room this small; they are piled up in many layers against every wall. Actually there is not a single place, where the actual wall can be seen. It is hidden beneath tale upon tale. Story upon story.

Slowly I step deeper into the room, as a smile is playing on my lips. Because of the layers of dust on the window, the sunshine from outside cannot reach in through the glass even though it tries its best and I fully understand why. This place is magical. Definitely not like a regular bookshop filled with fancy new books in shiny attractive covers or awfully many colourful non-book related things being sold. This shop though - this place is the real definition of a bookshop, where every book is old and have been read hundreds of times. A place where stories are shared rather than sold. Where it is the inside that matters and not the perfection of the outside. In here the books does not only hold their written stories, they also hold a life story of their own, which readers through out time have helped them form.