Twilight draped Saint-Malo in a velvet hush,
The sea's murmur a somber thread weaving through the fog.
Elias Moreau sat at the wobbly table in their apartment,
The candle's flame a frail beacon against the damp gloom,
Its wax pooling like tears on the wood.
His lungs trembled,
Each breath a fragile hymn,
The blood on his kerchief a vivid stain he could not erase.
Before him lay his first book—
Whispers of the Tide—
Its pages bound in modest cloth,
The ink still fresh with his struggle.
The small press had delivered it that day,
A triumph born of blood and dreams,
Yet the room felt hollow without Celeste's light.
He opened the book,
The paper's crisp edge cutting into his trembling fingers,
And read the opening lines:
> "In the hollow of my lungs, I carry the sea,
a storm I cannot name."
The words, once a solace,
Now echoed with the silence she'd left behind.
She sat across from him,
Her easel abandoned,
Her eyes a vacant tide staring at the wall.
The scent of stale turpentine lingered,
A ghost of her colors,
Mingling with the musty air
As she traced invisible patterns on the table.
"It's beautiful," she said, her voice a fragile thread,
But her smile was a shadow, fleeting and false.
Elias rose,
The floorboards creaking under his frail steps,
And carried the book to a local bookstore—
Its shelves dusty with neglect.
The air inside was thick with the scent of old paper,
The wooden floor cold beneath his boots
As he read aloud,
His voice a trembling echo.
The room held only Celeste
And a handful of strangers,
Their faces blurred by the dim light.
He coughed mid-verse,
The blood a secret he swallowed.
The owner nodded—
A gruff approval—
But the sales were dismal.
Copies gathered dust,
Their spines uncracked.
The sea's roar outside seemed to mock his effort—
A chorus to his fading hope.
Returning home,
He found Celeste staring at the cliff through the window,
Her hum—soft, haunting—
Rising like a ghost's lament.
The figure stood there again,
Swaying in the mist,
Its silhouette a chill that tightened his chest.
"She's there," Celeste whispered,
Her hand clutching the table's edge,
"judging our dreams."
The 1975 date from her sketches flickered in his mind,
A scar on their fragile victory.
He wondered
If her silence hid a truth tied to that year.
He set the book down,
Its weight a burden,
And wrote in his notebook:
> "My words are stars,
unseen in the daylight of indifference."
He drew her close,
The blanket's rough wool wrapping them,
Her breath a warm thread against his neck.
The candle flickered,
Casting shadows that danced like memories.
And through the window,
The figure seemed to move—
Closer,
Indistinct,
A riddle in the fog.
Was it the girl from her past,
A ghost of 1975,
Or a mirror to her despair?
The sea whispered,
Its voice a thread of secrets,
And Elias held her tighter,
The book a fading flame in the silence,
Its pages a testament
To a dream shadowed by mystery.