Paris Streets
The Paris sky was tinged with pink and gray as dusk settled over the ancient rooftops. The smell of fresh bread wafted from a nearby boulangerie, mingling with the damp scent of streets washed by a brief rain. Lana walked alone, her steps slow, unhurried, as if the entire city had decided to breathe in sync with her.
The cobblestones echoed under her boots. Her cream-colored coat, buttoned up to her neck, shielded her from the biting wind, but the warmth Paris stirred was something else—something internal, almost forgotten.
Chloe was the only one who knew about the trip. A quick message, no details. Lana needed to escape, to find something she hadn't yet named. But here, on this street between silent galleries and glowing cafés, she felt she was in the right place.
And then, as she turned the corner—gazing more at the sky than the path—she collided.
"Whoops!"
The impact was light but enough to throw her off balance for a moment. Books scattered on the ground, a backpack spilled open.
"Sorry, I—"
Lana crouched down at the same time as him.
Their eyes met over the book covers.
Dark, tousled hair. Intense but kind blue eyes. His voice carried an almost American accent, laced with the melody of French.
"You okay?"
She blinked, confused, then gave a soft laugh.
"Yeah… I should've been paying attention."
"Mutual fault. I was trying to read and walk, and that never ends well."
He held up the book in his hand—"Baudelaire, Out Loud," the cover read. She smiled.
"You read poetry while walking?"
"On good days. On bad ones, I trip over the verses."
She found herself laughing again. He extended his hand.
"Jason."
"Lana."
"American?"
"Close enough."
He stood, then helped her up. Their hands touched. And something small, almost imperceptible, trembled in the air around them. A breeze shifting direction. A distant bell ringing for no reason.
"Can I buy you a coffee as an apology?"
Lana hesitated. But something in his eyes—not just the spark, but the calm—melted her defenses.
"Sure."
Three weeks later, Lana was hand-in-hand with Jason, walking through the cold corridors of a baroque church in a village north of Paris. They were on an impromptu excursion, a mix of history and escape from the city. The place was known for its restored ruins and hidden relics—but what truly drew Lana was the silence.
The church was ancient, older than it appeared at first glance. Its architecture bore scars of time. Broken stained glass, gothic arches warped by war and neglect. Yet… still beautiful.
"You've always had this thing for abandoned places?" Jason murmured, guiding her past dusty pews.
"It's not abandonment. It's… memory. Like every stone here knows a secret."
"Then let's hear some."
The guide was a few meters ahead, talking about the Knights Templar and sacred art, but Lana got distracted. A side corridor caught her eye. No light. But she felt… something.
"Jason, come this way."
He hesitated, then followed. The corridor led to a circular room, dimly lit. In the center, a stone table. And on it… a book.
A thick volume, its leather cover darkened. Heavy iron clasps held it shut. A burned rose emblem adorned the center.
Lana approached.
Her heart beat faster.
Jason watched in silence. Something in the air had shifted. The temperature seemed to drop.
She reached out.
"Lana… it's just an old book."
"No…"
Her fingers touched it.
The leather was warm, unexpectedly so. The metal clasp trembled. Then, a snap—as if time had exhaled.
The clasp opened.
Lana stepped back.
The book opened on its own. Pages turned by themselves, stopping on ancient writing in Latin and archaic French. Spiraling symbols. Astral diagrams. And there, among the lines, a name.
Isobel Thoreaux.
The ground seemed to vanish beneath Lana's feet.
Jason grabbed her arm.
"You're pale."
She tried to respond. But her skin burned. Her left shoulder tingled.
Slowly, she lifted her coat sleeve.
Her exposed skin revealed something new. Black lines… a tattoo forming before their eyes.
A circle. Within it, a rose. Thorns. Ancient symbols.
Jason's eyes widened.
"Lana…"
"I… I don't know what's happening…"
The book glowed for a second. Then closed itself.
The room sank back into silence.
But the silence was different now.
It was the kind of silence that precedes the first note of a spell.
Lana looked at Jason.
And even there, scared, trembling, with a magical mark burning under her skin…
She smiled.
A small smile.
But real.
"At least… now the trip got interesting."
Jason laughed, despite the tension.
"You've got a knack for turning everything into a movie."
"It's not a movie."
She looked at the book again.
"It's just the start of something… I don't understand."
Jason stepped closer.
"Then we'll figure it out together."
And she knew, right there, that the promise wasn't empty.
His hand intertwined with hers.
The book made no sound.
But between its pages… something was awakening.
And deep in Lana's consciousness, an ancient voice smiled.
'Finally… you found me.'
Hotel
Saturday dawned lazily in Paris. Light streamed through the hotel windows like a golden sheet, tracing soft shapes on the pale carpet. The curtains swayed gently in the morning breeze, and the distant sound of a saxophone drifted from a lone street performer.
Lana slept on her side, hair spilled across the white pillow. Her breathing was calm, her face serene. But something in her body didn't follow the same rhythm.
The tattoo on her left shoulder began to glow.
First, a petal. Then the thorns. The black rose pulsed with light, as if breathing with a life of its own. The skin around it warmed slowly, but Lana didn't wake.
In her dream, she wasn't in Paris.
She was in a field.
The clouds were purple. The ground, made of cracked glass, reflected the sky like a shattered mirror. Lana walked barefoot, feeling the warm surface beneath her feet.
In the distance, a barren tree. No leaves. Just twisted branches, like fingers reaching for something lost.
She approached.
Carved into the trunk was the same symbol as her tattoo. The rose, the circle, the thorns.
A voice echoed. Neither male nor female. It was made of wind and time.
"Return."
Lana stopped.
The voice repeated.
"Return… to where it began. Where everything sleeps."
She tried to speak. But her mouth made no sound.
"Smallville."
The name exploded like thunder.
Lana's eyes snapped open.
The hotel ceiling. The quiet room. But her heart raced as if she'd run a marathon.
She sat up in bed, the blanket slipping off her shoulders. The room was still silent, but now… charged. As if something watched her.
The tattoo still glowed, but the light was fading. Lana pulled up her shirt sleeve and stared. The skin was still warm, but the design was intact.
Then she saw it.
On the bedside table.
The book.
The same book from the church.
Closed. Intact. But there. As if it had walked there on its own.
She didn't scream. Didn't leap up in panic. Just sat there, staring at it.
'How did you get here?'
No answer. Just its presence.
She grabbed her phone.
Messages from Jason.
[07:13] Morning, dreamer. Still thinking about that church from yesterday?
[07:15] I want to take you somewhere near the opera today. Brunch and books. In return, you let me watch you admire the shop windows like they're works of art.
Lana smiled, but it was brief.
She typed slowly:
[07:18] Jason… I had a dream. And I need to go back home.
The reply came quickly.
[07:19] Home?
[07:19] Smallville? Now?
She sighed, then responded:
[07:20] I know how it sounds. But I can't explain. I woke up with a certainty. Like something… is calling me. Like something is waiting.
Jason took longer to reply. Almost two minutes.
When it came, the message was short.
[07:22] When are you going?
[07:23] Today. I need to figure this out. I need to understand.
Another pause. Then:
[07:25] Alright.
[07:25] No drama. No questions. But with one promise: text me when you land. And let me know… when I can come to you.
Lana's eyes welled up. But she held it together.
[07:26] I promise.
[07:26] Thank you for… understanding.
[07:27] I don't understand anything. But I believe in you. And that's enough.
She set the phone down on the bed. Stared at the book again. Her shoulder still tingled.
Calmly, she stood.
Opened her suitcase.
Packed only the essentials. But she didn't forget the book. She placed it last, wrapped in a sweater. As if it were something alive, needing to be kept safe.
In the mirror, she saw the reflection of the tattoo peeking out from under her sleeve.
The rose.
The circle.
The start of a new story.
She closed the suitcase.
Took a deep breath.
And left.
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