Speak Softly, Love

Epilogue: Un Rêve

1945

     The estate was bustling with life and a tall, middle-aged man stood at the center of it all. He was surrounded by faces he had never seen— had never cared to see. Men and women, with blurred faces, though distinguishable enough to identify as human: each having a pair of shadowed eyes, a nose, and an impressionable mouth. They were all real people and they passed him with furniture and cutlery and platters. As they filtered out one by one, Nathalie appeared from the crowd.

     "You seem excited." She said.

     He hummed. He was sure he didn't seem to be, but Nathalie always knew what she spoke of. And it was true. He was happy.

     "Yes, it's only natural." He replied. " Adrien's visiting today."

     Her lips lifted into a small, gentle smile. "He is. It's been too long since we saw him."

     "It almost felt like he was gone forever."

     She pursed her lips. "Well, not that long."

     He looked down for a moment. Then up, and out the window, to the road beyond the gates.  How long until he arrived? The horizon seemed so far and unclear as it faded into a center-point of nothingness. 

     "Is it nice in Paris?" He wondered aloud. "Maybe he'll like to move back here."

     Nathalie patted his shoulder. "Knowing him, it depends. He'll follow wherever she goes."

     He hummed once more, though more drawn out and thoughtful. There was a time when he was like that, though so long ago, he could feel and hear the memory of delicate whispers, kisses, and nights. The estate felt safe and that, he understood. He did.

     He sighed and turned his head, but just as he did, Nathalie made a sudden movement and pressed her hand upon the glass.

     "Look! He's here!"

     His body moved faster than his mind— jerking back to see a blue car pull up in the driveway. The usual composure slipped away from him for a moment, as his breaths became heavy and he pressed against the glass to see the vague movement of figures inside the little coupe. There was a head of blonde hair on top of his son's face, a face he could barely recall. He urged himself to remember but all he could picture was a blurry focus of sun-kissed skin with sharpened green eyes. Emelie's nose, his son's smile, the curve of his cheeks; it all refused to form in his mind.

     Then, the door swung open. 

     Adrien stood up and all his recollection came flooding back. The little dots and pixels aligned and shifted and the image became clear. It was as if light flashed into a dark room and only grew brighter and brighter as the man made his way to the doorstep. Before he knocked, he turned back to look at the other figure, so naturally, his eyes trailed back to the parked car.

     It was his wife.

     He had met her once before.

     The woman was slender and pale and her hair was pulled back with a thin black ribbon. She wore a Prussian blue dress, one that cinched at the waist and descended down in small, delicate pleats, as the sunlight appeared to favor her. She pivoted her foot and faced them and in her arms was a child—a girl with that golden blonde hair. A gloved hand rubbed the little girl's back soothingly as she caught up with her husband at the door. He was searching for the ring but he could not find it, not even its shape under the white silk glove. Their mouths moved but he could not hear what they were saying.