Nice greeted Alina like a conversation already in progress.
The city moved differently from Èze—faster, brighter, layered with sound and color—but it did not overwhelm her. If Èze was a breath held gently in the chest, Nice was an exhale. Wide streets opened toward the sea, light bounced off pale façades, and people flowed past one another with practiced ease.
Isabelle parked near the old town and locked the car, slinging her bag over one shoulder. "We'll walk," she said. "That's how Nice makes sense."
They began with a museum near the edge of the city, the kind that didn't announce itself loudly. Inside, the air was cool and quiet. Alina moved slowly from room to room, letting her attention linger where it wanted to. She stood longer in front of smaller works—sketches, studies, unfinished things. There was something comforting in art that didn't pretend to be complete.
Isabelle noticed.
"You like the in-between," she said.
Alina smiled. "I think I always have."
They talked little as they walked. Words weren't necessary. Sometimes Isabelle would pause, point something out—a window, a detail carved into stone—and then they would continue. The second museum was livelier, filled with color and movement. Alina felt it register in her body without demanding reaction. She didn't feel the need to interpret. She let it pass through her.
By the time they reached the secondhand bookshop, the afternoon had softened.
The shop was narrow, tucked between a café and a florist. A bell chimed when they entered. Inside, shelves climbed the walls in quiet disorder, books stacked horizontally and vertically, spines faded by years of handling. The smell was unmistakable—paper, dust, history, and something faintly sweet.
A man stood behind the counter, older, with wire-framed glasses and the calm presence of someone who had spent decades among stories. He looked up as they approached, eyes curious but unintrusive.
"Bonjour," he said.
"Bonjour," Alina replied.
Isabelle drifted toward a shelf marked Essais, already scanning titles. Alina moved more slowly, running her fingers lightly along spines, pausing where instinct guided her.
After a while, she approached the counter.
"I'm embracing a quieter life," she said, almost surprised by how easily the words came. "What should I read?"
The owner studied her for a moment—not assessing, not measuring. Just looking.
Then he turned and reached behind him, selecting a slim volume with a pale, worn cover.
The Enchanted April.
He placed it gently on the counter. "This one," he said simply.
Alina picked it up, feeling its weight. The title felt like a promise she didn't need explained.
"Why?" she asked.
The man smiled faintly. "It understands renewal without urgency."
She nodded. That was enough.
She paid and tucked the book into her bag, feeling a quiet sense of rightness settle in her chest.
Outside, Isabelle raised an eyebrow. "That fast?"
Alina smiled. "Sometimes you know."
They wandered a bit longer, stopping at small shops without intention. In one, Alina noticed a tray of crystal bracelets near the register—amethyst, rose quartz, moonstone. She hesitated, then lifted one with soft pink stones strung simply together.
"For healing the heart," the shopkeeper said, noticing her interest.
Alina didn't laugh. She slipped it onto her wrist and felt its cool weight against her skin.
"I'll take it," she said.
They ended the day near the water, sitting on a low wall as the sun dipped toward the horizon. Isabelle spoke about her children, about the way Nice had shaped them—how cities left their mark quietly, over time.
When evening came, they drove back toward Èze, the road winding upward again. Alina watched the lights recede behind them, feeling content in a way that didn't require articulation.
Meanwhile, a few streets away from the museum district, a man stood across from a café with a camera slung discreetly at his side.
The private investigator had learned patience long ago.
He had followed the trail carefully—flight records, hotel check-ins, patterns of movement that revealed more by absence than presence. Nice had been the breakthrough. Cities left footprints, even when people tried to walk lightly.
He watched Alina from a distance as she exited the bookshop with Isabelle, noting her posture, her expression.
She looked… different.
Not guarded. Not alert.
Relaxed.
He snapped a few photos—not invasive, not dramatic. Documentation. Evidence of location, of companionship.
Later that night, in an office thousands of miles away, Darius sat alone with his phone.
The images loaded slowly.
Alina walking beside another woman, head tilted slightly as she listened. Alina seated at an outdoor café, hands wrapped around a glass, shoulders loose. Alina exiting a shop, smiling faintly at something Isabelle had said.
He stared longer than he intended.
She looked… well.
A lot more relaxed than he remembered.
There was no tension in her face. No sharpness in her posture. No performance. Just ease.
The realization unsettled him more than anger would have.
*****
Back in Èze, Alina stepped into her house and set her bag down. She slipped off her shoes, the stone floor cool beneath her feet. The crystal bracelet caught the light as she moved, scattering it softly across the wall.
She brewed tea and carried it to the back porch, settling into her chair as the evening deepened. She opened The Enchanted April and read the first page without hurry.
The day felt complete—not because it had been full, but because it had been true to her pace.
Somewhere far away, someone was looking at photographs of her life.
Here, she was simply living it.