Archive of Our Own

At 7:30 in the morning, Arthur Kirkland stood in some nameless alley in the 11th arrondissement of Paris, holding a camera with a jammed lens and a shutter that refused to press. He had the distinct feeling that his honeymoon phase with this city was probably over.

He had arrived in Paris three days ago. His original plan was to stay for at least two months—his London flat was being renovated, his magazine work could be done remotely, and spring in Paris offered so many scenes worth photographing. He'd rented a room in a cheap hotel, intending to use it as a base to explore outward. But on his second day, while waiting for sunrise in Montmartre, an ill-timed gust of wind had knocked over his tripod.

The camera hit the ground hard. The fortunate part was that the lens didn't shatter, but the zoom ring seized up completely. The shutter made an uneasy clicking sound, and even when it occasionally fired, the resulting images were blurry and indistinct.

He'd tried four repair shops. The first quoted a price high enough to buy half a new camera. The second said parts would take two weeks to arrive. The third only repaired watches. The fourth was already closed. The shadow of the looming war was spreading. Even if Paris hadn't yet been directly affected, supplies were already tight, and imported parts were outrageously expensive.

He needed to find a place to live first. No matter how cheap the hotel, staying for two months would bankrupt him. Ideally, he could find a small room, rented by the month, with a desk and a window that let in light.

Just as he was thinking this and rounding the corner, he saw the chalk writing.

"Small room for rent, with window. Price negotiable."

The handwriting was crooked, as if the owner had truly struggled to write on the wall. Beneath the small blackboard were clusters of flowers, and following the flower stand led to the side door of a florist shop. The shop was named "Sous le Soleil." Through the window, he could see large bouquets of white lilies and purple irises in the display, the morning sun reflecting off the glass. The door wasn't open yet, but the lights were on. Above the side door was indeed a small window, with a tiny iron flower basket hanging outside. Against the white wall, a pot of rosemary grew lush and vigorous.

The location was excellent. On the edge of Montmartre, a five-minute walk from the metro, surrounded by bakeries, cafés, and used bookstores—all the amenities. Arthur stood at the door doing the math. It was more suitable than anywhere else he'd seen. Only the price remained in question.

So he reached out and knocked on the florist's door.

No answer.

He knocked again.

From inside came a clattering crash, like something being knocked over, followed by a mumbled French curse. Footsteps approached, the door was pulled open from within, and a man with disheveled, milky blond hair appeared in the doorway. His apron was tied crookedly around his waist, dirt smudges on his face, a pair of pruning shears still clutched in his hand.

He looked Arthur up and down with the expression of someone clearly not fully awake.

"...English?"

"How did you know?"

"Your shoes." The man tilted his chin toward Arthur's brown Oxfords. "And then—" He gestured vaguely toward Arthur's person. "Serious, low-pressure system."

"Also, if you're here to buy flowers, I don't open until nine."

"I'm not here to buy flowers." Arthur stepped aside slightly, pointing to the chalk writing on the blackboard. "This room. Is it still available?"

The man blinked, then suddenly seemed to wake up fully. He tucked the pruning shears into his apron pocket, pushed the door open wider, and made an exaggerated "after you" gesture.

"It's available! Of course it's available! You're the first to come see it today, and also the first this week. Mind the stairs—the fifth step is a little loose. Your dear brother here hasn't had time to fix it yet."

The room was small, visible in one glance, but very clean. It had a single bed, a wooden desk, a chair, and a storage cabinet of reasonable size. The window faced east, and the morning sun shone directly in. A thin layer of dust coated the windowsill, and the rosemary outside looked even more vigorous up close.

"The flower shop is downstairs. It can get a bit noisy." The man was leaning against the doorframe. "But it smells nice. Hot water is shared—the bathroom's at the end of the hall. The kitchen's downstairs; feel free to use it if you know how. But don't touch my cheese. That's exclusively your dear brother's."

"How much is the rent?"

The man named a figure. It was less than half what the hotel cost.

"...That's too cheap." Arthur looked at him suspiciously. "What's wrong with it?"

"Nothing wrong with it, Sherlock." He shrugged. "It's just empty. A girl studying art rented it before, but she moved south last month. I run the shop alone, can't manage both floors. Having a tenant means someone to take in packages."

"I'm not your doorman."

"I didn't say you were." The man smiled, extending his hand. "Francis Bonnefoy. And you are, Mr. Oxford Shoes?"

"...Arthur Kirkland."

That afternoon, Arthur moved his luggage from the hotel.

He didn't bring much. One suitcase, one backpack, a few books, and the broken camera. Tidying the room took only half an hour. Then he sat at the desk, took the camera apart, and tried fixing the zoom ring with a small screwdriver.

No use. A part inside was bent, and he didn't have a replacement.

He set the camera aside in frustration, deciding to at least try taking something with it. Broken as it was, the shutter barely functioned. He aimed it at the window and pressed—blurry, the focal length fixed, exposure wrong, strange shadows at the edges. Like an abstract painting.

When he went downstairs, Francis was changing the water for a bucket of roses at the entrance. Sunlight filtered through the plane trees, scattering like bits of gold over both him and the flowers. He had a blade of grass clamped between his teeth, sleeves rolled to his elbows, wrists wet with water and bits of leaves. The whole picture of him was lazy, carefree—as if he'd stepped out of a 19th-century painting.

Arthur raised his camera.

The double image in the viewfinder was misaligned. The zoom ring was stuck at its farthest setting, compressing the street scene into a blurry mass of color. Only Francis, standing in the exact center, appeared as the sole reasonably clear figure. He pressed the shutter. It made a dry, grating click, like something scraping past with difficulty.

Then Francis turned his head.

That bored expression on his face lit up instantly when he saw the camera in Arthur's hands. Not with anger or confusion, but pure delight.

"You like photography too?!"

Before Arthur could explain, Francis had already abandoned the bucket and was rushing toward him, wiping his hands.

"Let me tell you, your dear brother set up a whole darkroom! Out back! Do you want to try it? Do you know how to develop photos? Never mind, come on—"

"Wait, this one is too—"

"Stop worrying about all that. That one's definitely blurry, and your camera sounds like it's about to die completely. But the darkroom! Have you seen a darkroom? With the red light?"

Arthur was half-pushed, half-dragged through the door under the flower shop stairs—the one that was always closed.

The moment the safelight came on, Arthur saw the sink, the enlarger, rows of chemicals, and negatives hanging on a line to dry. A small radio sat in the corner. The air smelled of developer and fixer, slightly sour, with a metallic coolness.

"You built this yourself?"

"Two years of saving up." Francis proudly patted the enlarger. "This is your dear brother's most valuable possession."

"...Why do you have a darkroom in a flower shop?"

Francis tilted his head, as if the question were strange.

"Because photography and growing flowers are the same thing. They're both about watching something turn into what you want it to be." He said, "Besides, this is my house."

Arthur didn't speak. He looked down at his broken camera, and suddenly felt an itch in his fingers.

"Come on, slow time right now." Francis took a roll of undeveloped film from the shelf. "We'll start simple. Give me your photos, let's see if we can save them."

In the dim light of the darkroom, they stood side by side, watching the first photograph slowly emerge in the developer. It was the one of Francis changing the water for the roses at the door. Somewhat blurry indeed, but the figure was relatively clear—the light spots on his head echoing the dancing highlights in the background, lending it a hazy, ethereal beauty.

"Oh," Francis murmured, "not bad at all."

"I'd say it's a complete reject."

"Then keep it for me." Francis smiled, lifting the photo from the water to examine it in the red light. "Look at your dear brother's perfect profile—"

From that day on, Arthur spent almost all his free time in the darkroom.

Francis pestered him until he pulled out every last undeveloped negative he owned. Discovering a shared hobby, they grew familiar with startling speed, quickly progressing to the kind of relationship where insults led to actual kicking. Taking pity on Arthur, Francis generously lent him his own silver-white camera, making Arthur swear on his life that if he broke this one too, he'd be condemned to a lifetime of over-baked scones, and if he took bad photos, he'd never drink tea again.

Eventually, Arthur developed the first photo he'd taken with Francis's camera and slapped it down in front of him. "I'll buy your silence with this, you dead frog."

Francis looked down. It was himself, watering the flowers at the shop door.

"Me again?"

"What of it?"

"Buying me off with my own good looks isn't going to work."

"You're at most a speck in that frame."

They started bickering again, until finally Francis loudly demanded Arthur pay him a portrait fee, then ran off screaming from the Englishman's flying kick, leaving Arthur to watch the shop.

But Arthur was stubborn. He'd grown attached to his own camera, and besides, it had been very expensive.

A few days later, Arthur discovered that the photos from his camera weren't just blurry anymore—they looked like they'd been taken through a fog. No amount of focusing helped. He tried three more repair shops. One said German parts weren't being supplied anymore. Another quoted a repair fee even more outrageous than the last. The third just shook its head and said, "Monsieur, you might as well display this camera as a decoration."

So when he trudged back to the flower shop, Francis could guess what had happened.

"So it's officially dead."

"More or less."

"And you still carry it around every day."

Arthur looked down at the corpse hanging around his neck and made a face. "...Habit."

"Rich boy, huh? Still wasting film on it."

"And using a whole room for a darkroom is so frugal?"

"That's a necessity—" Francis paused and made a face at him. "Why are we arguing about this?"

"You're oppressing me with your proletarian values, you artisan."

"You're the one who's wasteful."

They stared at each other.

"...Are you hungry?" Francis straightened up and began removing his gloves. "It's about that time. The new batch of croissants should be ready."

"Starving."

"Let's go."

And so they fell into a strange kind of rhythm. In the mornings, Arthur would go out with the broken camera, wander all over Paris, and come back with photos that were blurry, distorted, like images seen through tears. In the evenings, he'd develop them, and Francis would laugh over dinner while looking at them, saying things like, "This one's like an Impressionist painting," "This one looks like Paris after you've had too much to drink," and "Honestly, this one's actually kind of good."

Arthur started telling him about what he'd seen on his walks. The old man fishing by the Seine. The street musician playing the accordion on the Montmartre steps. The little shop that opened on a corner selling Turkish delight.

He discovered that Francis, a lifelong Parisian, had infinitely more stories about the city than he'd ever find himself. So he began writing London into his stories, and slowly, more and more distant places, offering them in return for Francis's sharing.

"Why don't you go see some of it yourself?" Arthur asked once.

Francis was leaning over the counter, arranging a batch of fresh baby's breath. He tilted his head at the question.

"Goodness, the conditions are terrible."

"What do you mean?"

"You think your dear brother hasn't thought about it?" Francis straightened up, idly picking at the tiny flowers. "I thought about it for ages—once I'm established, once the shop makes money, once I've saved enough, once I find someone to watch the store, then I'll go here or there." He waved vaguely. "But the shop almost went under the first two years. Then when things finally stabilized, I thought going alone wouldn't be much fun."

He placed the bouquet in a vase, his tone as casual as if he were discussing the weather.

"Besides, everyone I know is here. I'm happy enough."

Arthur looked at his profile. That same profile he'd seen so many times in the darkroom—under sunlight, it had a different kind of contour.

"Just need a little time and the right moment." Francis gathered the flowers together, turned around, and resumed his usual joking expression. "What's this, asking me to travel with you? I should warn you, I'm very picky about destinations."

Arthur rolled his eyes.

"It was just a casual question. You're overthinking it."

"Your ears say otherwise."

"Argh—shut up."

That was the first week of May 1940. Arthur had been there longer than he'd expected.

The war situation began deteriorating rapidly.

On May 10th, the German offensive began. On May 15th, the Netherlands surrendered. On May 20th, armored divisions reached the English Channel coast. On May 26th, the Dunkirk evacuation began. By early June, the distant rumble of artillery could be heard from Paris, and more and more southbound vehicles appeared on the streets alongside hurried pedestrians.

Arthur walked back in, frowning.

He didn't speak when he pushed open the flower shop door. Francis was standing behind the register, the radio on, louder than usual. An announcer read a statement in a calm yet urgent tone.

Arthur stood at the entrance, still gripping the doorknob.

He'd been following news from Britain for days. The embassy had issued a notice: leave as soon as possible. Trains and ferries were still running, but no one knew for how long.

He took a deep breath. The air smelled of flowers, as always.

"...Francis."

"Hm?"

The Frenchman didn't look up. He was wrapping white roses in paper, his fingers steady, winding thin twine around them in circles.

"Come with me," Arthur said. "It'll be safer in England. I have a place there. You could—"

Francis looked up.

He looked at Arthur carefully. After a moment, he laughed. It wasn't his usual joking laugh—quieter, as if genuinely happy from the bottom of his heart.

"Go, Arthur." He set the wrapped flowers aside and came around from behind the counter. "I'll help you pack. There's not much time."

"...What do you mean?"

"Help you pack." Francis repeated, already heading upstairs. The fifth step, long since repaired, held steady under his feet. "You can't take too much. I'll keep the rest for you. Pack your camera and passport. Everything else, stuff it in if you can. What won't fit, your dear brother will mail to you."

Arthur stood there watching his retreating back, something sinking in his chest.

Packing took less than an hour.

Francis displayed an efficiency Arthur had never seen in him before. He found Arthur's suitcase, folded his clothes neatly, packed them inside, and tucked two chocolate bars, a small bottle of water, and a slightly crumpled Paris map into the side pocket of the backpack. He checked Arthur's passport, confirmed it hadn't expired, and went downstairs to pack all the freshly baked croissants into a paper bag.

Arthur watched him bustle in and out, knowing he should say something, but his mouth opened and closed without making a sound.

By the time they finished packing, the sky was turning orange and purple. Arthur stood outside the flower shop, carrying his old backpack and pulling the suitcase Francis had packed for him. The plane trees on the street were still the same color; the evening light had turned the walls a pale pink. The air held the hint of summer moisture. A rickshaw rolled slowly past in the distance, lit by the streetlamps.

"Francis." He spoke again.

Francis came out of the shop, holding something. The camera. The silver-white body, well-maintained, fine scratches on its leather case, lens clear and bright.

"For you." He placed the camera in Arthur's hands. "A farewell gift."

Arthur took it. He knew how much Francis treasured that camera—he'd sworn blood oaths on it, after all.

"...Why?"

"That little German treasure of yours is long dead—"

"Why won't you come with me?" Arthur cut him off, gripping the camera's leather case, his voice tight. "I meant it, Francis. You'd be safe. France will be fine. You could just wait it out—"

He was starting to babble. Sentences tumbled out one after another, his French mixing with English, his words speeding up.

"I mean, you could go to England until things calm down and then come back. I'm not asking you to stay forever. Think of it as a trip. Didn't you say you wanted to get out and see things? I'm inviting you—"

"Artie." Francis placed both hands on Arthur's shoulders. His hands were steady, his palms slightly cool, and he squeezed reassuringly. "Breathe."

Arthur took a deep breath. Then another.

"Breathe deeply. Yes, like that. Good. Now listen to me, alright?"

He waited. Only when Arthur's breathing finally steadied did he slowly lower his hands.

"My roots are here, Artie. I don't want to abandon France."

"It's not abandoning—" Arthur clenched his jaw. "I just want you to be safe."

A rickshaw turned onto the street. Francis hailed it, and it stopped in front of them. He lifted the canvas rain cover, put Arthur's backpack inside, then stepped back to give Arthur room to get in.

"Here we part, little Arthur." His voice was calm. "Remember to send me photos. I'm still waiting for the great editor Kirkland to publish my daily newsletter."

Arthur put one foot into the carriage, then pulled it back.

He turned around.

The evening light fell on Francis, still like bits of gold. He stood relaxed in front of the flower shop, apron still on, two buttons of his shirt collar undone, his milky blond hair darkened in the growing dusk. That street, those flowers, that window display, the person standing under the plane tree—all of it bathed in the impending night.

Arthur suddenly realized he couldn't imagine Francis saying goodbye. In all the time they'd spent together, every farewell had been a simple "See you," or at most, "Good night."

This was different.

After this parting, where would they go to find each other again?

"Alright." Arthur stood by the carriage, clutching the camera that had been pressed into his hands, his voice low as if speaking to himself. "Usually, when people say goodbye, what do they say?"

Francis paused.

Then he lowered his head, the corners of his mouth curving into that familiar, maddening smile.

"Oh," Francis looked up at him again, his eyes reflecting the streetlamp light, "let's just say 'goodbye.'"

Arthur was silent for a moment, then shook his head. "I thought you were the type to say... you know, something else."

Something else.

He'd thought Francis would say something comforting. Or something sappy, like a confession. Or maybe just thanks. Or, uncharacteristically, an apology. Francis was a hateful, flamboyant, annoying, melodramatic Frenchman. Arthur had thought Francis would, in this moment when joking was least appropriate, say something utterly bastardly that would leave him speechless.

But just "goodbye" seemed somehow insufficient.

But he just stood there, letting the words sink in. The night fell slowly around them, carrying the warmth of approaching summer, the air soft and comfortable. Francis sighed and gave a nearly helpless smile. He squeezed Arthur's shoulder again, in comfort.

"Let's save those words for our next goodbye," Francis said. "We'll say them then."

Arthur looked at him for a long, long time. Until the rickshaw driver impatiently tapped his ridiculous bell.

"Alright, hurry up now. I didn't expect you English to be so sentimental, hmm?" Francis began guiding Arthur into the carriage.

"...Next time," Arthur repeated, his voice rough. "When?"

"Who knows?" Francis shrugged, the gesture carefree, infused with a lazy charm—and Arthur kicked him. "Maybe when you're ready to return that camera to me."

Arthur sat down in the carriage. Before the waterproof curtain was fully drawn, Francis leaned in first and shoved the bag of croissants into his arms.

"Goodbye, Eyebrows. Eat them while they're warm."

"...Goodbye."

The curtain fell. The driver immediately pushed off. Arthur turned his head and saw through the small window at the back of the carriage Francis standing where he was, one hand raised, waving lazily as if shooing away a gnat.

The streetlamp in front of the flower shop was fully lit now, casting a long, solitary shadow behind him.

The carriage turned the corner. Arthur looked down at the silver-white camera in his arms and the bag of still-warm croissants. He opened the bag and took one, feeling the warm crispness on his fingertips. Francis had baked these himself—the nearby bakery had closed long ago.

He took a bite. It was good.

---

Arthur returned to London overnight, exhausted after three separate trains and boats. He collapsed onto his flat's bed in the early morning light and slept deeply, not waking until the evening noise from the street roused him.

London was still cold and damp. The war hadn't reached it yet, still far away across the Channel.

He stayed in his flat for three days. The first day, he slept for most of it. The second, he cleaned the flat and read everything he could get his hands on. On the third morning, he sat at his desk with the radio on.

An announcer read the latest update on the war in France. How many kilometers the Germans had advanced, where the French army was regrouping along some river whose name Arthur couldn't remember, no further news from Paris—the announcer read each item in a carefully neutral tone, then moved on to domestic air-raid drill schedules. No substantive information. Nothing he wanted to hear.

He turned off the radio.

The room fell silent. A thin stripe of light crept through the gap in the curtains, crawling from the floor to the foot of the bed. People spoke downstairs—his landlady, probably, greeting someone. He couldn't make out the words.

He looked down at his hands. His right hand had clenched into a fist without his realizing it, his nails leaving four shallow red crescents in his palm.

Slowly, he uncurled his fingers.

He sat at the desk for a long time. That thin stripe of light crept from the floor to the edge of the bed, then to the wall corner, and finally disappeared. The room grew darker. The noise of early evening began in the streets—trams, newsboys, people coming home from work. Even in summer, London was cold. The air smelled of coal smoke and wet asphalt.

He stood up and walked to the bookcase. In one drawer was a train timetable, its cover showing the national rail network before the war. He flipped to the northwest pages and traced a finger along the lines.

Liverpool. Northern Ireland. And then—

He tapped his fingertip next to "Liverpool" and closed the timetable.

He didn't want to stay where he was.

He immediately booked a train ticket to Liverpool for that evening. From there, he could take a boat to Northern Ireland, and then—then he'd see.

When he packed his bag, he placed the silver-white camera Francis had given him in the safest pocket of his backpack, surrounded by a thick stack of unexposed film. He would go around the war. Find something to do.

He arrived in Liverpool at dawn. The scenery along the way wasn't much different from what he remembered. When he reached the docks, he hung the camera around his neck, ready to start documenting the journey from that moment.

And then Arthur saw the suppressed panic in the crowd—people packed together, surging toward the ferries. Everyone had the same idea: take the earliest boat, hurry as far from the war as possible, try to outrun the shadow of death.

From deck to shore, Northern Ireland felt no different from England—just a little further north, the air a little colder. Arthur stroked the camera strap, exhaled a warm breath, and aimed his lens at a place he'd been before.

He didn't take long choosing his next destination. Scandinavia was the safest option for now. Iceland was still safe, unlikely to be suddenly caught in the fighting, and many wanted to go there—plenty of ships. Arthur bought warmer clothes in Northern Ireland and went back to sea.

The thin snow on the wooden gangplank crunched under his feet. Iceland's air was worlds apart from his homeland. Dry, and colder, more sharply.

He mailed his first letter in Reykjavík.

After arriving in Iceland, he found a place to stay until he decided on a next destination. He lived as usual: going out in the mornings, trying new foods, photographing things worth remembering. In the evenings, he'd stand by the streetlamp outside his hotel and look up at a sky similar to home's, but clearer.

He spent three evenings at his desk, trying to write to Francis.

The first night, he wrote "Dear Francis," and then stopped. He couldn't decide on a salutation. "Dear" was too intimate. "To" too formal. "Hey" too casual. Finally, he crossed out the prefix, leaving only "Francis," but that felt too abrupt, so he added "My friend" before it.

Arthur wrote two full pages in fits and starts. Emotions flowed more easily onto the page: missing, worrying, hoping for safety, wishing for them to go together to see the sunflowers in Arles after the war. He read it through twice, then crumpled it into a ball.

He couldn't send that. He didn't know why, but something in him said no. As if, in some hackneyed story, writing down his hopes and promises would let fate read them—and Arthur had never been fate's favorite child. As if the more he longed for their reunion, the less likely it would happen. As if praying for Francis's safety would somehow make him die from the weight of it.

It was superstition—people don't die just because someone thinks about them. But he burned the paper anyway.

The second night, he wrote a much shorter version, resembling a mission report: I'm in Iceland. It's colder than I imagined. Hope you're well in Paris.

He looked at it, thought it was too cold, and might as well not have written anything. He crumpled it too.

The third night, Arthur spent an absurdly long time thinking about it. He sat by the window of his hotel, looking out at Reykjavík's gray harbor and the distant snow-capped mountains. He spread his photos and writing paper across the table, and suddenly thought—Arthur Kirkland was an excellent editor and writer. He knew how to tell stories.

So he wrote the story of his journey north.

He wrote about Iceland's volcanoes and hot springs, about the hotel owner's one-eyed cat, about the old man at the dock who cursed in three languages. He wrote how the sea breeze in Britain differed from Iceland's, how a sailor on the crossing played Scottish ballads on a harmonica, and how the local specialties tasted—sweet spirits, fresh fish. His tone was light and precise, professional. Only at the end, after he'd filled the pages with everything he'd seen and done, did he finally write the date and sign his name.

He tucked a few photographs into the envelope—from the crowd in Liverpool to the snowfields of Iceland. He told Francis his next stop would be Greenland: I haven't been there either, but I'll take you with me.

He sealed the envelope, put on a pretty stamp, and dropped it into the mailbox, hoping it would somehow reach that flower shop in Montmartre. Not that he expected it to make it through occupied territory, not that he knew if it would be censored, confiscated, or get him into trouble. But so what? He'd be on to his next destination. No one would find him.

Watching the bright red mailbox, he felt strangely lighter, as if the letter had carried away some of his anxiety. He'd finally done something he wanted to do. His life felt like his own again.

And then it became a habit.

He went from Greenland by ship to North Africa, feeling the true heat of the tropics. It was now the spring of 1941, six months since he'd left Paris. Every place Arthur went, he took new photos. After he started turning his lens toward people, photography felt completely different—he became part of those stories too, not just an observer and chronicler. Slowly, he settled into this rhythm, sending out letter after letter, photo after photo, immersing himself in strange darkrooms to process the memories he'd captured. Like dropping stones into a deep well. No echo came back, but each throw felt meaningful.

His journey continued. In Morocco, Arthur met a boy the color of honey who flashed a V sign at him with fingers stained yellow-brown, smiled at the lens in front of a spice stall, and taught Arthur the Arabic word for "thank you." He stopped at an overcrowded port on the Iberian Peninsula, watching the endless surge of people on the docks. Among them stood a woman perfectly still, lifting an unopened letter to her nose and touching it with a tearful kiss. In a pockmarked square in Algeria, a boys' football team played raucously with a ball made of rags and crumpled paper, loudly insisting Arthur referee their match, then gave him soda and cigarettes when they parted. There were soldiers waiting to go home to sing for the women they loved, old people reading tattered books in the afternoon... Arthur bought a few tattered books too, reading them without knowing how they began.

In 1943, Arthur boarded an eastbound ship, rounded the Cape of Good Hope, and headed for a continent he'd never visited. The journey from India to Burma was long and arduous. The weeds growing from the ruins were already knee-high. Though people were still mired in the war's swamp, the world was breathing through its scars.

The road from Burma to China was muddy and hard. The humid heat wrapped around him like a curtain, seeping into his lungs with every breath, filling them with moisture. Around the campfire at night, people from countless nations gathered. Eastern faces speaking halting accents with Westerners in awkward but warm conversation. Suddenly, someone ran into the circle cheering, shouting news of Germany's surrender.

The firelight shone on joyful yet exhausted bodies. Congratulations and good wishes passed from person to person. It was May 1945, and the war had lasted too long. Arthur captured them all in his camera, then retreated to the edge beyond the firelight, pulled out his writing paper, set it on his knee, and prepared to write this too into his story. He would mail it when he reached Kunming.

Arthur began to write:

"The war is won."

---

The noise in the streets exploded outward, newsboys' voices merging with newspapers flying through the air into people's hands. Cheers pushed the already stuffy air of Chongqing in August to another level.

Arthur was startled, but he could guess the reason. He raised his camera, watching through the viewfinder as people pressed together, laughing, waving arms, the flying papers like festive streamers overhead.

Suddenly, someone rushed over and hugged him, nearly knocking the camera from his hands. It was a young man in a faded powder-blue shirt, shaking him like a long-lost brother. Arthur was amazed by the warmth of these people. The man spoke rapidly, too fast for Arthur to catch a single word. But one phrase seemed to leap out of the noise.

Arthur recognized it. A Chinese soldier had awkwardly taught it to him in Burma.

He broke into a wide, happy smile, infected by the crowd's energy, and gently hugged the man back.

"回家."

Arthur missed his own rainy homeland too.

He went back to London first. It was the end of winter, 1946.

He needed to go home. To check if anything had been bombed. The postal routes were open again. If Francis had written, the letters should have arrived.

He stayed in his London flat for a week, sweeping away the war's shadows. He checked his mailbox seven times. Every time before opening it, he took a deep breath. Every time after closing it, he told himself, "It's nothing."

No letters. Not one.

He hadn't really expected any. So it wasn't exactly a disappointment. At least, that's what he told himself.

He stood by his apartment window, looking out at the London streets being relit after the blackout, silent for a long time. Then he began booking tickets to Paris.

The train was much the same as years before. But the carriages had changed, and so had the scenery outside. The fields still bore the scars of shell craters—some filled and planted with new crops, others filled with rainwater to become small ponds. Some villages had new roofs, their tiles a different color from the old houses, like patches. On the coast of Normandy, he could see some collapsed fortifications, concrete rubble scattered on the beaches, seagulls perched on them as if on rocks.

Arthur leaned against the window, his fingers unconsciously stroking the camera bag on his lap. Inside was the silver-white camera and a thick stack of unsent photographs—far more than he'd ever mailed.

The train pulled into Paris in the afternoon. The station hadn't changed, but bullet holes marked the walls—some patched with fresh cement, some not. The air held the same familiar smells: coal smoke, roasting chestnuts, the fishy smell of the Seine.

He followed his memory toward Montmartre.

The plane trees were still there, far from leafing out. An old man sat on a bench beneath them, a newspaper in his lap. The corner bakery had a new sign, but the scent of bread was just the same. The newsstand was still standing, but the seller was a young woman instead of the older man he remembered. The metro entrance railings had been repainted, a shade darker than before.

He felt every step fall into the gap between memory and reality.

He'd only lived in this place for a few months. But it had become as familiar as London. He'd learned to develop photos here, spent a loud, raucous time with a Frenchman. It seemed now, looking back, those were the last golden days before the war.

He turned the last corner. The flower shop was there.

His first thought was that he'd grabbed the wrong photograph.

Arthur pulled the old picture from his pocket, taken nearly six years ago. Francis stood watering the flowers on the stand at his doorway, shimmering in the sunlight. He'd kept it all this time, its corners soft and frayed.

He looked at the photo, then at the flower shop before him.

The structure was the same, but there were far fewer flowers. Before, Francis would put the brightest blooms outside—roses, peonies, lilies—as if trying to display all of spring. Now only a few pots of pothos and a couple of succulents sat there, their leaves coated in dust.

The bucket was still at the door, but it held only some dry branches and half a bucket of greenish water, a dead leaf floating on top. The iron flower basket was still on the balcony, but the rosemary had long since withered, leaving only a few gray-brown twigs poking through the railing.

The windows were dark inside.

Arthur stood across the street and didn't cross over.

Sunlight fell on the flower shop's glass, reflecting a blinding white glare. He could see dust motes drifting slowly in the light beams, like plankton in water. There was no "Closed" sign on the door, but it didn't look open for business either.

He stood there, not knowing how long. A passerby glanced at him, then kept walking. The plane trees were bare, only casting shadows of their branches on the ground.

Arthur couldn't make himself cross the street.

He didn't know if he could handle the answer. If no one answered when he knocked. If someone else lived there now. If a neighbor told him, "The florist? Taken away in '40." He didn't know if he'd break down crying right there in the street.

He stood a little longer. Then he folded the photo and tucked it inside his coat, turned, and walked the other way.

He would go to the post office. Whatever he could find out—at least it would be something.

The main post office was in the city center, a gray stone building with blackened carvings above the door from coal smoke. Inside, it was very tall and quiet. Footsteps made faint echoes. The afternoon sun slanted in through high windows, falling on the back of an old man waiting in line, on the hands of a clerk sorting letters behind the counter.

Arthur walked up to the counter. The clerk looked up at him.

"Hello," Arthur said, his voice steadier than he'd expected. "I'd like to check if any letters addressed to the flower shop 'Sous le Soleil' in Montmartre have records of arrival. Also, I'm looking for a person."

The clerk—a balding man with a name tag reading "Leblanc"—stared at him for a long moment.

"You are Monsieur Arthur Kirkland?"

"How did you—"

"Wait a moment," Monsieur Leblanc said, standing up and heading to the back. "That boy François talks about you constantly. Hard not to know."

Arthur stood at the counter, listening to his own heartbeat, not sure what he should be feeling.

When Monsieur Leblanc came back, he was carrying a stack of things. A bundle tied with thin twine—letters—and a few postcards in clear sleeves. The envelope on top was slightly yellowed, edges a bit worn, but the writing was clear.

Flourishing script. Even though every Frenchman loved that flowery handwriting, Arthur recognized this name.

Sender: Francis Bonnefoy. Recipient: Arthur Kirkland. Return to sender. Address invalid. On top of that, another label: Recipient has moved.

"These have been sitting here uncollected." Monsieur Leblanc put the stack on the counter. "The ones sent to you were all returned. Eventually, he stopped trying. He just said to hold them here. Some of the ones you sent did arrive—looking at the dates, I think not all of them made it. But unfortunately, François hasn't come to collect his mail in a very long time."

Arthur looked down at the stack of letters.

The top one was dated November 1943.

He pulled it out, his fingers running over his own name on the envelope.

"Where is Francis?" he asked, his voice tight. "Is he—is he still—"

"I'm sorry, I don't know," Monsieur Leblanc said, offering a regretful smile. "I haven't seen him in a very long time either. I'm sorry."

Arthur took a deep breath, lifted the stack of letters from the counter, and held them against his chest.

"Do you know anyone who might know where he is?"

"The bakery owner next door to his shop, perhaps. Or the clockmaker across the street." Monsieur Leblanc hesitated. "But the last I heard of him was nearly three years ago. No one's seen him since."

Arthur just stared at the stain on the counter.

"Thank you," he said finally, very quietly.

Arthur carried the letters—both Francis's and his own—to a bench and sat down, his hands trembling as he opened the envelope. The familiar signature, its ink a little smeared. The postmark was illegible, the date stopped at November 1943.

He nearly tore the letter paper when he unfolded it.

*Dear Arthur,*

*I've tried to write you so many letters. So many that Monsieur Leblanc at the post office shakes his head every time he sees me. He says things are so chaotic in England that your address has probably changed. But I still want to send them. Just in case one of them makes it to you.*

*I've been thinking lately about the day you came to the flower shop.*

*That messy blond hair of yours and those furrowed eyebrows were practically shouting what you were. And knocking on someone's door at dawn—what was that about, hm, little Arthur?*

*Then you had the nerve to take that sneaky photo of me with your broken camera. But since your dear brother's profile is admittedly very good, I generously forgave you.*

*And also, that camera has been with me for years. It followed me from Arles to Paris and photographed countless things. Now I want it to follow you out into the world and see what's there.*

*So this is a loan! You have to give it back to me. I'm its real parent, after all.*

*Spring is coming to Paris again. The winter flowers in the shop have all opened, and I don't know when the rose branches climbed all over the wall. I bet you would love it. Every day when I push open the door, I think—what if you're standing across the street, camera raised, catching the look of surprise on my face?*

*I hope everything is alright in London, little Arthur. Your dear brother misses you every day, you know. And if one day in the future you come back to Paris, we'll go to Arles together and see the sunflowers.*

*Until then.*

*Yours,*
*Francis*

The paper shook in his hands like a leaf in the wind.

Arthur read it over and over, looking for anything he might have missed, but found nothing else.

"But... this is..." His throat tightened. "This is exactly—"

A letter full of missing, full of regret. This wasn't a farewell letter. How was it not a farewell letter?

He didn't know if he'd been primed by what others had said, or if he'd truly believed it. Francis was dead. Arthur's fingers tightened, crumpling the edge of the paper. He wanted to scream at Francis, curse him out. He wanted to blame himself for not finding a way to take him away back then.

He could feel tears coming—

"Goodness, little Arthur, you're still alive."

The voice came from behind him, slightly hoarse, but the ending still lazily rising—as casual as a morning greeting.

Arthur spun around.

Francis Bonnefoy was leaning against the doorframe, wearing a faded white shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair a messy halo. He was tanned, thinner, and had a short stubble on his chin.

But alive.

Standing there perfectly fine, head tilted, looking at Arthur with that insufferable smirk.

"Holy shit."

Arthur said.

"You scared the fucking hell out of me, you French frog—"

He stormed forward, stopped midway when he realized he was still clutching the crumpled letter. That just made him angrier, so he slapped it directly against Francis's chest.

"You're alive and well, and you write a farewell letter?!"

Francis blinked, shrugging with an innocent look.

"Oh, little Arthur." His voice was amused. "Your dear brother never said he was dying."

"You didn't say?!" Arthur shoved the letter back in his face. "Look at this! Missing, regretting, there's even something about bequeathing things—"

"English wordsmith, you're amazing." Francis cut him off, unimpressed. "This is at most a love letter. Isn't that what letters are for?" Francis clutched his chest in mock hurt. "My god, do you want me dead?"

"What—? I don't—don't change the subject! Who considers something like this a love letter?" Arthur's voice abruptly rose an octave, and Monsieur Leblanc behind the counter quietly shrank back.

"You do." Francis said matter-of-factly. "You read it and cried."

"I did not—" But when he touched his face, it was wet.

"...Dust."

"Mhm."

Francis reached out, gently took the letter from Arthur's hands, folded it carefully, and put it back in its envelope. He moved slowly, slowly enough that Arthur finally noticed his fingers bore many new, fine white scars, and dirt was still wedged between them.

"Come on, little lord. In my letter, I wrote 'until then.'" Francis handed the envelope back. "Or is it just that you're sad because your favorite Frenchman's last words are gone?"

"Don't make such an ambiguous mess of it. I'm not the only one who thought you were dead," Arthur muttered.

"Alright, alright, I apologize. Forgive me, little lord, won't you?" Francis pressed his palms together in a pleading gesture.

"You owe my tear ducts compensation."

"Please. Crying over your dear brother isn't shameful." Francis laughed, his eyes curving into horribly lovely arcs. "Many people do."

Arthur immediately turned to glare at him—and saw that those blue-purple eyes were also a little red.

Arthur deflated, suddenly feeling like a complete idiot. Rushing here to find someone, seeing a letter, bursting into tears. He hadn't even tried hard enough.

Crying like this over a Frenchman.

"Let's go," Francis had already turned to leave, the afternoon sun stretching his shadow long behind him. "I'll take you back to the shop. I just looked—the gas and water meters are still working."

"I could have just stayed a little later and run into you."

"That's what you get for being impatient. Thank you, Monsieur Leblanc—!"

Arthur ran after him, carrying the stack of accumulated letters.

The flower shop door was opened. The air inside was stale, faintly musty, dust swirling up to tickle their noses. Arthur stood in the doorway, frozen, staring around the room he knew so well.

"Don't block the doorway." Francis squeezed past him, casually taking the stack from Arthur's hands and setting it on the counter, raising another cloud of dust. "Come in."

Arthur's throat felt dry. He shuffled inside, not knowing what to say, and finally managed, "What is there to eat? The dried flower corpses?"

"Unlike you, I know how to buy groceries when I return."

"So basically, I'm picking up your packages?"

"And I came all the way to pick you up."

Arthur opened his mouth, then realized the Frenchman's ability to twist words in circles was still far stronger than his. He gave up arguing, put his bag on the floor, and stared blankly at a dusty flowerpot.

On the way back, he'd sneaked a look through the stack. Francis had written him thirteen letters. Some had double postage on them. All were addressed to the London flat Arthur had told him about.

"You knew you were getting my letters. Why did you keep mailing them to England?"

"Like mailing them elsewhere would have made sure you got them?"

Arthur had no comeback for that. He shot Francis a resentful look. Francis shrugged, striking a victorious pose.

"What do you want to eat? Actually, you don't have a choice. Your dear brother cooks, you eat." Francis took an unopened bottle of red wine from the shelf and wiped the dust off with an apron hanging nearby. "I'll make you something amazing. I guarantee you'll be surprised."

"You cook," Arthur repeated. "You."

"Such distrust."

"The only cooking appliance I've ever seen you use is an oven."

"That was four years ago."

"Whatever you say."

"Little Arthur." Francis put the glasses on the counter, leaned his hands on its surface, and said with immense dignity, "War changes a person."

Arthur raised an eyebrow.

"You're talking like you just came back from the battlefield."

"The kitchen is a battlefield." Francis nodded gravely. "And your dear brother won."

He then turned and slipped into the kitchen. When Arthur didn't follow, he poked his head back out.

Arthur was standing in the middle of the flower shop, shifting his weight from foot to foot, his fingers unconsciously stroking his backpack strap. Everything was familiar. The familiar counter, the familiar layout, the familiar room. The air still held that lavender-and-mildew scent. The person before him hadn't changed.

It was all too normal.

As if those five years in between didn't exist.

He looked at the stark scars on Francis's wrists, at his thinner frame, at the unopened bottle of red wine on the table.

Francis sighed softly.

"Come on," he said, his voice losing its teasing edge, almost gentle. "We have a lot of bedtime stories to catch up on."

"You really..." Arthur rubbed his nose, put his backpack down on a flower stand, and finally walked into the kitchen. "...can make anything sound flamboyant."

"That's the secret of Bonnefoy Enterprises' success."

The kitchen was small. Francis was already cutting onions, his movements clean and efficient. Arthur leaned against the doorframe watching him, wondering when he'd learned to cook.

"So."

Francis didn't look up.

"Where are you planning to go next?"

Arthur was quiet for a moment.

"...Haven't thought about it yet."

Outside the window, it was a Montmartre afternoon. The sunlight had warmed the cobblestones to a soft gray. Distantly, the clang of a tram mixed with someone's warbled, slightly off-key tune.

"Why do you ask?"

Francis pushed the chopped onions into the pan, wiped his hands on his apron, and turned around.

The light fell on his face. Arthur saw the seriousness in his eyes, hidden behind his usual carefree smile.

"Your dear brother wants to go out and see things too." Francis turned back to the stove; the onions hit the pan with a sizzle, steam rising. "Follow in your footsteps."

The smell made Arthur's eyes sting, but he didn't look away.

"Why?"

"You don't want me to?"

"No—can you not twist everything I say?"

"You started twisting first, though?"

Arthur glared furiously at him for several seconds, as if the moment of tenderness had never existed.

"Your onions are burning," Arthur finally said to the smug-looking Frenchman.

Francis looked down at the pan and swore elegantly.

"By the way, I'll take your suggestion. I want to see what conclusions our great traveler has come to over the years."

Arthur shut his mouth, not knowing what else to say. The afternoon sunlight outside was lovely. The kitchen smelled comforting. Well, Arthur thought, almost defeated, he would probably never know, for his entire life, what the Frenchman's "proper" farewell words would have been. Arthur smiled quietly, feeling content.

"Oh, by the way, we're sharing the bed tonight. My room got bombed—"

"WHAT?!"

"Why are you yelling so loudly?!"