Chapter One Hundred Forty-One: The Sanctuary on Rue des Lilas
The apartment was warm.
Not the sterile warmth of a hotel room, not the suffocating warmth of a house trying too hard to feel like home—but the simple, honest warmth of a place where people actually lived. Books stacked on side tables, a child's drawing taped to the refrigerator, mismatched mugs hanging from hooks above the sink.
I sat on the sofa, a soft blanket wrapped around my shoulders, my bare feet tucked beneath me. The clothes Namhyun's wife had given me were too big—a cream-colored sweater that smelled like lavender, soft leggings bunched at the ankles—but they were warm.
I was still shivering.
Not from the cold.
From the ache.
That woman. That beautiful, pregnant woman with the little boy and the doting husband. I'd seen her again—walking along the river, her hand in her son's, her belly round and full beneath her coat. I'd tried to follow her. Tried to find her. And gotten lost instead.
"More tea?" Namhyun's wife appeared beside me, a porcelain pot in her hands, her expression soft with concern.
"No, thank you." I pressed my palm to my stomach, still churning from the soup she'd insisted I eat. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—"
"You shouldn't apologize." She sat across from me, settling into the armchair with a grace that belied the exhaustion etched into her features. "You were lost. Scared. You needed help. That's what neighbors do."
"We're not neighbors."
"Then that's what strangers do." She smiled—small, warm, the kind of smile that made you feel like you'd known her for years. "We help each other. It's the only way to survive."
I looked around the room.
The ceilings were high, crisscrossed with exposed wooden beams. The walls were painted a soft, faded blue—the color of the sky just before dawn. A fire crackled in the stone hearth, casting dancing shadows across the floor.
"You have a beautiful home," I said.
"Thank you." Her hand drifted to her belly, a gesture so unconscious it seemed like breathing. "We bought it years ago. To celebrate our anniversary. We come here every spring."
"Every year?"
"Every year." She smiled, distant and fond. "It's our tradition. Our reset. A week in Paris, just the three of us, before the chaos of the school year begins."
"Seojun must love it."
"He does." Her smile widened. "He talks about it all year. The crêpes. The carousel. The man who sells balloons near the Eiffel Tower." She laughed—soft, the sound like wind chimes. "Last year, he convinced Namhyun to buy him a balloon in the shape of a giraffe. It floated away before we reached the metro. He cried for an hour."
"Poor baby."
"Poor Namhyun." Her eyes sparkled. "He's the one who had to carry him home."
I smiled.
It was small, hesitant, the smile of someone who had forgotten how to be happy and was only now beginning to remember.
"You're a doctor," I said.
"An obstetrician. Yes."
"Is that why you were walking by the river? Do you work at a nearby hospital?"
"No." She glanced toward the window, at the rain still falling beyond the glass. "I was just… walking. Thinking. The baby is due soon, and I—" She paused, her hand resting on her belly. "I wanted to feel close to her."
"Her?"
"I don't know yet. We're waiting to find out. But I like to imagine she's a girl. With dark hair and Namhyun's eyes."
"My husband has dark eyes."
"Does he?"
"Yes." I pressed my palm to my chest, over my heart. "They're very dark. Almost black. Sometimes, when he looks at me, I feel like I'm drowning."
"That sounds romantic."
"It sounds terrifying."
She laughed. "It can be both."
I was quiet for a moment, watching the fire dance.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Of course."
"If a woman sees another woman—a stranger, someone she's never met—and her heart aches… what does that mean?"
Her brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"
"I see her everywhere." The words came out soft, almost a whisper. "On the street. By the river. In my dreams. She's beautiful. Pregnant. With a little boy. And every time I see her, my chest feels like it's cracking open."
"Perhaps you know her."
"I don't."
"Perhaps you did. Before."
I looked at her.
She was watching me with those kind, searching eyes—the eyes of someone who had seen suffering before and learned to sit with it instead of looking away.
"What's your name?" I asked.
"Hana."
"Hana." I tested the word on my tongue. It was soft, warm, the name of someone who could be trusted. "I'm Aish."
"I know." She smiled. "Namhyun told me. He speaks very highly of you."
"He does?"
"All the time. You're his favorite student. He says you have a brilliant mind. A kind heart. And a talent for forgiveness that most people spend their whole lives trying to learn."
I looked down at my hands.
I didn't feel brilliant. Or kind. Or forgiving. I felt lost. Empty. A hollow vessel waiting to be filled with memories I couldn't reach.
"Pretty aunt."
Seojun appeared beside the sofa, his dark curls damp from the bath, his cheeks flushed with warmth. He was clutching a stuffed rabbit—floppy-eared, one eye missing—and staring up at me with those impossibly bright eyes.
"Hello, Seojun."
"You're still here."
"I'm still here."
"Good." He climbed onto the sofa, settling beside me, his small body warm against my side. "I was worried you'd leave."
"I wouldn't leave without saying goodbye."
"You promise?"
"I promise."
He nodded, satisfied, and leaned his head against my arm. The rabbit dangled from his hand, its remaining eye staring at nothing.
"Mama says you're sad."
"I'm not sad."
"Your eyes are red."
"I was crying."
"Why?"
I didn't know how to answer that. Because I was lost. Because I'd run away from my husband. Because I kept seeing a woman I didn't know and feeling like my heart was breaking.
"Because I'm confused," I said finally.
"About what?"
"About everything."
"That's okay." He patted my arm, his small hand surprisingly gentle. "Papa says being confused is the first step to understanding."
"Does he?"
"Mm-hmm. He's very smart. He has a lot of degrees."
I smiled. "I know. He was my professor."
"Were you a good student?"
"I don't remember."
"That's okay too." He snuggled closer, his head settling against my shoulder. "Mama says forgetting is just remembering in a different order."
"She sounds very wise."
"She's a doctor."
"So I've heard."
The fire crackled. The rain tapped against the windows, soft and steady. And Seojun, with his stuffed rabbit and his impossible wisdom, fell asleep against my side.
---
"You should eat something."
Hana appeared in the kitchen doorway, a tray in her hands. The smell drifted toward me—warm bread, melted cheese, something savory that made my stomach clench with hunger I hadn't felt in hours.
"I'm not hungry."
"You need to eat." She set the tray on the coffee table, the dishes clinking softly. "Soup. Bread. A little fruit. Nothing heavy."
"I threw up earlier."
"Then you need to replenish your electrolytes."
"You sound like a doctor."
"I am a doctor." She smiled, settling into the armchair across from me. "So you should listen."
Namhyun appeared behind her, a cup of tea in his hands. He looked tired—the shadows beneath his eyes were darker than I remembered—but his expression was soft, kind.
"Seojun fell asleep?" he asked.
"On my shoulder."
"He does that." He sat on the arm of Hana's chair, his hand resting on her shoulder. "He attaches himself to people he likes and refuses to let go."
"Like his father."
"His father is very discerning."
"His father is very clingy."
"His father is very devoted."
They shared a look—something warm, something private—and I looked away.
The ache in my chest was back.
Not the ache of longing. The ache of envy.
"How long have you been married?" I asked.
"Ten years." Hana's hand found Namhyun's, their fingers intertwining. "We met in medical school. He was studying psychology. I was studying obstetrics."
"He was very persistent."
"I was very resistant."
"You were very beautiful."
"I was very focused."
"You were very—"
"Stop." She laughed, swatting his arm. "You're embarrassing me in front of the guest."
"You're never embarrassed."
"I'm always embarrassed. I just hide it well."
They looked at each other again, and I felt like an intruder in my own skin.
"Eat," Hana said, turning back to me. "Before the soup gets cold."
I picked up the spoon.
The broth was warm, savory—chicken, maybe, with herbs I couldn't name. I swallowed, waiting for the nausea to return. It didn't. Just a soft, settling warmth that spread through my chest like honey.
"Good?" she asked.
"Good."
"You need to eat more."
"I'm trying."
"Try harder."
Namhyun laughed. "Hana, leave her alone."
"I'm a doctor. It's my job to harass people about their nutrition."
"It's your job to deliver babies."
"Same thing."
"It's not the same thing."
"It's adjacent."
They bickered, soft and familiar, their words a gentle rhythm that made me feel, for a moment, like I was part of something. A family. A home. A life I couldn't remember but desperately wanted to belong to.
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