Page 64
Will
T here were mornings when I still expected the sound of boots.
It creeped in just after I woke, that hollow beat of a patrol echoing through the alleys of my mind. I knew it wasn’t real, not here, not anymore. But after everything—Hungary, the river, the silence that followed—I supposed some instincts lingered longer than the bruises.
But this morning, like every morning for the past few months, all I heard was the shuffle of pigeons outside our window and the gentle creak of wood as the city woke slower than we did.
Paris had taken us back in like a forgiving friend.
I loved it here.
I loved our little flat with its chipped tiles and the kitchen hardly wide enough for two people to breathe. I loved the bakery that opened before dawn and the café with the surly waiter who never remembered our order but always brought the right thing. I loved the way sunlight filtered through our curtains—like gold laced with dust—and the hum of mopeds three floors below.
Most of all, I loved that we had returned to it together.
Thomas shifted beside me.
We were a mess of limbs and tangled sheets, his bare chest rising and falling in slow, even breaths. I couldn’t tell where he ended and I began, and I didn’t want to. His thigh was slung over mine, one arm draped across my waist like he’d fallen asleep mid-embrace and never let go. I wasn’t sure how either of us had survived the night without being smothered, but I wasn’t complaining.
Last night had been, well, intense.
Weeks of adrenaline, of not knowing if we’d live or die, had drained out of us and been replaced by something softer, more desperate. We’d made love like it was a promise.
Then again, slower.
Then again, just to be sure.
Now we lay in the quiet aftermath, our bodies sore and hearts unburdened.
I lay there for a long while just watching him.
My partner.
My Thomas.
He was the most brilliant, infuriating, beautiful man I’d ever known.
His lashes fluttered against his cheeks, his hair a tangled mop of curls flattened on one side. A faded scar just below his collarbone caught the morning light, a pale memory of a war neither of us had won.
I touched it gently.
He still didn’t stir.
God help me, I loved this man.
Eventually, I rolled toward him, pressing my forehead against his shoulder and breathing him in. I felt the warmth of his skin, our shared sweat, breathed in a hint of the lavender soap I’d bought in the market because I thought he’d like it—and he had.
Outside, Paris breathed with us.
Footsteps on cobblestones.
A child laughing.
Somewhere, the smell of baking bread drifted up through the window we’d left cracked overnight.
This was home. Our home.
Thomas stirred, one arm tightening around my waist. “You’re staring.”
“I’m admiring,” I whispered.
“You’re thinking.”
“Same thing.”
He groaned, his voice hoarse from sleep. “If it’s about breakfast, I’m not moving unless it comes with painkillers and coffee.”
“Our usual café?”
“The one with the asshole waiter?”
“Which one?”
He laughed. It was soft and genuine and wrapped around my heart like silk. “Pick one that serves strong espresso and looks the other way when we sit too close.”
“Noted.”
We began to untangle.
Every muscle protested. My lower back popped when I stretched.
Thomas hissed when he sat up, rubbing his still-healing shoulder.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Hurts like hell.”
“Want me to kiss it better?”
“Absolutely not.”
I kissed it anyway.
We moved through the room in quiet tandem, the way people do when they’ve memorized each other. I brushed my teeth while Thomas put on his socks. He folded the blanket while I poured two glasses of water. We dressed in whatever was cleanest, laughing over whose sweater smelled less like sweat and regret.
Then a soft shhhp sound broke the stillness.
Something slid under the door.
We both turned.
“Well, fuck me,” Thomas sighed. “We just got here.”
I crossed the room and scooped up the envelope. There was no seal, no return address, only our names in neat, oversized handwriting.
It wasn’t a courier’s note.
It didn’t look like Agency.
It was something else.
I handed it to Thomas. He opened it with practiced caution, then stared for a long moment before smiling.
“What is it?”
He passed it to me without a word.
I unfolded the paper.
It smelled of lilacs and pencil shavings.
Written in blue ink, with determined precision: Dear Mr. Emu and Mr. Condor, I hope this reaches you. I asked the nice woman with the strange glasses in Paris to send it. She said it would find you eventually. I wanted to let you know I’m all right. The school is nice. The food is strange. They have a cat named Pascal who likes to steal my pencils. I miss Papa. So much. But I think he would be happy I am here. They tried putting me in classes with other students my age, but I was miserable. Those kids barely knew how to do proper mathematics, and none of them knew the first thing about modular arithmetics, or a polyalphabetic cipher, or anything really important. After a few weeks, they moved me to study with a bunch of college students. A few are doing graduate work in cryptography. I think I am still the most advanced in my classes. I am building something you’ll find really interesting. It’s not ready yet. But when it is, I’ll let you know. Thank you for saving me. Love, Eszter F.
I read it twice.
Then again.
By the time I looked up, Thomas had already sat on the edge of the bed and was staring out the window. His jaw was tight, but his eyes were soft.
“She’s alive,” I said, voice hoarse.
He nodded. “And building something.”
We sat in silence for a long moment, the kind of silence that holds things too big for words, then he stood and offered me a hand.
“Come on, Mr. Emu. We’ve got a café to offend.”
I took his hand, and together, we stepped into the Paris morning, the letter tucked in my coat pocket, and our hearts just a little lighter than they’d been the day before.
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