The murmur of voices, hushed and low, filtered through the bedroom door. Familiar, comforting. But they couldn’t chase away the weariness that clung to me like a second skin. The mirror, cold and unforgiving, reflected back the truth. Tired, yes, but also...empty. A hollow ache where something used to be.
A walk. Perhaps. As if I hadn’t already walked a thousand miles in the labyrinth of my own thoughts. But the air, the crisp morning breeze, could be a balm. Even a tired soul needs a little wind in its sails.
I slipped out, careful not to disturb the peace in the kitchen. The world stretched before me, a canvas of concrete and steel, yet somehow the riverwalk held a promise of escape. The bridges, like graceful fingers reaching across the water, evoked memories… Paris. Paris of long ago, where the Seine flowed beneath bridges of stone, carrying lovers on its current.
The familiar aches in my joints, the weight of years on my shoulders, all seemed to fade as I stepped onto the path, the cool morning air a whisper against my skin. Maybe, just maybe, the walk would bring a little more than just fresh air. It might bring a breath of hope.
