The second new friend arrived without ceremony.
Claire did not ask where Alina had come from.
She did not ask what she had left behind.
She did not ask what had happened.
And in that absence, something profound settled between them.
Respect.
It began on a quiet Thursday morning, after book club dispersed as usual with soft goodbyes and vague promises of "next week." Claire lingered near the doorway of Les Repas de la Famille, buttoning her coat slowly.
"There's a small library in Èze most people ignore," Claire said casually. "It's quiet. Not charming. Just… quiet."
Alina tilted her head slightly. "That sounds perfect."
Claire nodded once. "Would you like to go?"
There was no eagerness in her tone. No performance. Just an offer.
Alina said yes.
The library was tucked behind a narrow stone alley, nearly hidden between two older buildings. Its windows were modest. The door creaked softly when opened. Inside, the air smelled faintly of paper and dust warmed by sun.
It was not curated for tourists.
It was not aesthetic.
It was functional.
Which made it beautiful.
Claire walked as though she had been there many times. She didn't narrate. She didn't guide. She simply moved toward a shelf, selected a book, and sat down at a long wooden table by the window.
Alina chose something at random—fiction first, always fiction first—and sat across from her.
They read.
For nearly two hours, they did not speak.
There was no need to comment on the silence. No need to fill it. The turning of pages became the only shared sound between them.
Alina noticed something unexpected.
Her body was not alert.
She was not waiting for interruption.
She was not bracing for questions.
She read slowly, deeply, the way she used to before life became something she had to manage.
At one point, she looked up and caught Claire watching her—not intensely, just briefly.
Claire smiled.
Not probing. Not curious.
Just acknowledging.
Around noon, Claire closed her book gently.
"Lunch?" she asked.
They walked to a small café a few streets away. It was simple—white tablecloths, handwritten menu, bread that tasted as though it had been taken seriously.
They spoke about books.
About scent memory.
About how certain smells lingered longer than faces.
Still, Claire did not ask about the past.
And Alina realized how rare that was.
Most people, when they sensed someone rebuilding, leaned in.
Claire did not lean.
She simply stayed.
After lunch, Claire said, "Would you like to see my shop?"
Alina blinked. "Your shop?"
Claire nodded. "Perfume."
They walked through narrower streets until Claire unlocked a door framed by soft blue shutters. The sign above was modest, handwritten script.
Inside, the space was luminous and restrained. Shelves lined the walls, holding glass bottles in various shapes—clear, amber, deep green. The air was layered with scent—floral, woody, citrus, something warm underneath.
"You own this?" Alina asked softly.
Claire shrugged lightly. "It's quiet work. That suits me."
She moved behind a small wooden counter and placed several small vials before Alina.
"Would you like to make your own?" Claire asked.
Alina hesitated for only a second.
"Yes."
Claire guided her gently.
"This one is bergamot. It opens quickly, bright and sharp."
"This one is sandalwood. It stays."
"This is jasmine. It speaks softly but insists."
Alina closed her eyes as she smelled each one.
She wasn't thinking about symbolism.
She wasn't trying to encode a message.
She chose what felt right.
Something bright at the top.
Something grounded beneath.
Something light threaded through.
They blended carefully, Claire explaining proportions without controlling the process. When the final mixture settled into its small glass bottle, Claire handed it to her.
"Well?" she asked.
Alina inhaled.
It felt… like air.
Like space.
Like forward motion.
Claire smiled faintly. "What are you going to name this?"
Alina thought for a long moment.
Not calculating.
Not strategizing.
Just listening inward.
"Fly High," she said quietly.
Claire laughed—not mockingly, but warmly. "That's a good name."
Alina turned the small bottle in her fingers.
Fly High.
It wasn't defiance.
It wasn't rebellion.
It was permission.
They spent the rest of the afternoon labeling the bottle, sealing it carefully. Claire showed her how scent changes with skin temperature, how the base notes emerge slowly.
"It doesn't rush," Claire said. "The best scents don't."
Alina applied a small amount to her wrist.
Hours later, it still lingered.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Present.
As they closed the shop for the evening, Claire locked the door and slipped the key into her coat pocket.
"I don't ask questions," Claire said suddenly, without looking at her. "Not because I don't care. But because if you want me to know, you'll tell me."
Alina felt something steady anchor inside her.
"Thank you," she replied.
Claire nodded once.
They parted at the corner without hugging, without overpromising, without dramatic declarations of closeness.
And yet—
Alina walked home carrying something new.
Not excitement.
Not distraction.
Respect.
That night, she placed the small bottle of perfume on her dresser.
She looked at it for a long moment.
Fly High.
She had not chosen the name to prove anything.
She had chosen it because it felt light.
And light, she was beginning to understand, was not the absence of weight.
It was the absence of fear.
She slept that night without dreaming of falling.
She dreamed of open sky.
And in the morning, when she applied a small drop to her wrist, the scent unfolded gently—bright at first, then warm, then steady.
Like her life.
No one had asked her anything personal.
No one had demanded context.
No one had needed explanation.
And in that quiet respect, something in her healed a little more.
Friendship, she realized again, did not require excavation.
It required space.
And Claire had given her exactly that.