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Length: 9.4k words

ONE YEAR LATER, DECEMBER 2061 – PARIS, FRANCE

Even at its coldest, most miserable form, Paris is pretty. Even as Ange clutches her coat around her tighter, the roads filled with tourist taxis because the Seine River is what they all want to see, Paris is pretty—so pretty that ugly weather feels beautiful. When it snows once, she experiences the first snow that she felt as a child in Seoul, then the second, then the third…and so on because Paris has that effect on people. The snow falls like powdered sugar in the bakery in which she works, covering the city in a gentle frost that she can almost taste on her tongue. It’s Paris, City of Lights, and the Halo Effect is no stranger here.

Ange know this. Perhaps the reason why Paris is so pretty to her is because she was born here to a mother that left the world too soon. Maybe it’s her mother’s faint memory that causes her to look at Paris in rose-tinted lenses. Maybe it’s because it’s home now, and homes are supposed to be comforting. Maybe it’s because Paris feels like one, giant bubble, and all troubles seem so far away in that city.

Regardless of what Ange’s thoughts are on Paris, she arrives home to her little apartment on Rue Bouffon in the le cinquième—the fifth arrondissement—with her mind back in her head and hands out of her gloves.

“Camille!” Ange whisper-yells when she enters the tiny, one-bedroom apartment. The apartment building was constructed sometime in the 1800s and only constructed sometime in the early 21st century, so the walls are still thin, and she must be careful of waking her neighbors.

“Did you bring me any éclairs?”

In the dim lighting of the living room, almost hiding under the flowing leaves of Ange’s great assortment of indoor houseplants, is Camille Deschamps—Ange’s old friend from fashion school and now next-door neighbor. (Sometimes, she’s more of a live-in neighbor, though, since she’s always fascinated by the different smells of bread that Ange practices making for her job.) Camille sits on the worn pink love seat with circular spectacles sitting atop her tall nose bridge. In her lap is a thick book, but she peers over at Ange inquisitively, as if begging with her eyes, “where are the éclairs?”

“The bakery ran out,” Ange answers simply. She takes off her long coat and hangs it up on a rack. After brushing out the snow in her now waist-length hair, she shrugs at Camille. “It’s December. Almost Christmas too. You know how foreigners are when they get here—especially the Americans. They want to buy twice as much food as normal people.”

“The Americans,” Camille huffs, blowing a few strands of her curly auburn hair out of her face. She then pushes her glasses back up before reopening her book. “Of course. I should have known.”

“I’ll try to bake more batches tomorrow,” Ange reassures her friend. She sets her purse down on her small kitchen table—which is only one of those foldable tables that she covers with a cloth—and then cranes her head towards her half-closed bedroom door. The light is still on, albeit very dim. “Is Luna asleep?” Ange asks quietly. “Or is she just dozing off?”

“Oh, she’s asleep, alright. I read her favorite story twice,” Camille replies expertly. She purses her thin lips together and seems to exaggerate her displeasure. “She had the wonderful audacity to try to bite my hand as well. She—”

“She’s a six-month old baby,” Ange hushes her know-it-all friend. “She’s at the age where she wants to put everything in .”

“I was never at that age.”

“Yes, I’m sure you weren’t,” Ange playfully retorts as she makes her way to her bedroom. She pushes the already ajar door open to reveal the cozy sight of her daughter’s crib which Ange has placed under a nursery mobile of clouds and miniature hot-air balloons.

Smiling, Ange tiptoes to the crib since the floorboards creak, and sometimes they’re enough to wake up the little Luna. When Ange reaches the crib, she leans over the edge to observe her small moon sleep. The warm, yellow-orange lighting of Ange’s room almost makes Luna’s pink birthmark disappear, but it’s still visible to Ange who it softly. Although the birthmark is only about a quarter of the size of Ange’s palm, it nearly covers Luna’s cheek in what looks like a light pink map of France. Even smaller freckles and moles appear to mark the location of cities.

“Bonne nuit, ma chérie,” Ange whispers first in French. Goodnight, my darling, she says in all three languages that she knows. French for where Luna will grow up, Korean for where her mother and father were raised, and English for the places where she may one day travel to.

Ange chuckles softly as Luna lightly scrunches her nose in her sleep. Baekhyun used to do the same thing when he was dreaming.

- - - - -

Big cities usually see an influx of tourists—domestic and foreign—during the holidays, so it’s no surprise to Ange when her bakery is filled with them later the following day. With her place of work located in the picturesque 11th Arrondissement, she’s bound to have busy days around the year from locals and tourists attempting to fulfill their itineraries. Ange doesn’t mind being busy since it takes her mind off things, but it’s difficult too since baking is a skill that doesn’t come naturally to her.

“La baguette est brûlée,” Remy, her supervisor and owner of the boulangerie, reprimands her on one busy afternoon.

Looking at the slightly burnt baguette, Ange winces. “Désolé,” she apologizes. “Je l’ai oublié au four.” And it’s true. She merely forgot to take it out of the oven on time, therefore roasting it for much longer than it needed to be.

However, Remy has high standards. As an immigrant coming from Cameroon to start a new life in France, he has always had a lot to prove—even when it comes to making baguettes. Fortunately, that also means that he understands the struggles of starting anew because he doesn’t linger on Ange’s mistakes too long. Like her, Paris is the blank new page. The fresh start. The city in white. Small steps and errors are to be expected.

“One year,” Remy says with his warm voice and thick French accent. “Since you came.”

“Oui, c’est vrai,” Ange agrees.

It has been at least a year when Ange first started working at Remy’s bakery as a delivery person who bought the ingredients and shipped orders around town. Two months into that job, however, and she quit because driving is one of those things that she couldn’t quite get used to after Baekhyun’s death. One, it’s no fun to do it alone. Two, she’d always rather be the passenger than the driver. After much begging and negotiating, Remy allowed her to be one of his assistants, and since then, Ange has only ever looked back to make sure that the ovens were running in the kitchen.

Remy has to take a phone call in his office, so he leaves Ange at the front of the store to fulfill orders. Since it’s the holidays, and most shopkeepers benefit from having later hours, the bakery closes at 8PM rather than 5PM today. Christmas is also only two days away, so that means people are stocking up on ingredients for their Christmas feasts.

“Hello,” Ange greets the next customer—a fair-skinned woman with sapphire-blue hair that matches her eyes. The woman smiles back and presents Ange with a ticket number.

“Hi,” the woman greets back in English. Like the customer before her, she has a foreign accent, indicating that she’s in France for the holidays as well. “I’m here to pick up an order.”

“Name?”

“Alina.”

Ange nods as she looks over at her list of pick-ups. A few hours ago, an Alina made an online order for two dozen palmier cookies. To make sure, she glances at Alina’s ticket number to ensure that it has the correct order number. Sure enough, it does, and Ange retreats to the back of the store where the special orders are kept until they can be delivered or picked up.

“Two dozen palmier cookies,” Ange confirms as she pushes the box towards Alina.

“Thank you,” Alina replies with a smile. She then slips a hand in her coat’s pocket and takes out a few bills.

“Oh, there’s no need. You ordered online,” Ange tries to explain. “You don’t need to pay again.”

“No, it’s for you.” Alina continues to hold the bills. “You must take it.”

“Tips can go in the jar—”

“No, it’s for you,” Alina insists. She finally places the folded-up bills of cash on the counter so that Ange has to take it. “You must take it.”

Alina leaves the bakery without another word, and she stands outside—presumably to wait for a taxi. As she stands out there, Ange stands inside, mystified by her rather forceful request. Although she has had her fair share of strange tourists, Ange hasn’t met someone so insistent on her accepting a tip. There are generous people who leave kind tips, but they have never said anything as forceful as “you must take it” so directly. Regardless, Ange picks up the euro bills. Upon touching it, she immediately notes the odd difference in its thickness—as if the euros were concealing something within them.

Ange unfolds the euros, and sure enough, there is a business card tucked in between two bills.

20h30, the business card says in a silver sans serif font, indicating a time. Bassins du Champ de Mars.

On the back of the business card is an odd, singular symbol that appears to be a depiction of a star: ✷

Although there is a threatening aura to the card (Ange wonders if this is a form of coercion), Ange is also deeply intrigued by it. She looks outside to where Alina is still standing and waiting for a ride. Her wavy blue hair appears to glow in the streetlamp’s light, giving her the illusion that she’s from another place. Ange wants to go outside and ask her why she gave her such a card, but another customer has lined up, and Alina is already stepping into an all-black car.

- - - - -

When Ange’s shift ends at 8, her mind goes into autopilot mode. She can only think about going home as soon as possible. One of Ange’s neighbors—an elderly woman called Madame Clarke—is kind enough to watch Luna when Ange goes to work at the bakery. During the longer holiday hours, however, Camille agrees to watch Luna from 5 to 9 in the evenings after work, and since Christmas is coming up, Ange doesn’t want to inconvenience her friend any longer than she needs to be. It’s in Ange’s best interest to go home quickly, but when she’s reaching into her pocket to take out her phone and call a taxi, her fingertips brush against the business card that Alina gave to her.

20h30. Bassins du Champ de Mars.

Ange doesn’t want to go. It’s unsafe. Potentially life-threatening. Just purely unwise. And she’s 22 now. She should know better than to go to strange addresses given to her by strangers. However, as she looks at the odd symbol of an eight-pointed star, Ange can’t help but to feel drawn by it. Curiosity isn’t something that fades away when people grow older. If anything, curiosity grows stronger as its beholder realizes that there is still so much that lies unknown.

“Curiosity killed the cat,” Ange reasons with herself. Behind her in the kitchen, Remy is washing the metal trays that they use to toast baguettes in the industrial ovens. In front of her is the window with a view of a classic French street—cobbled roads and shining storefronts with quaint fairy lights hung over the doorways.

Life has been picturesque in the past year. Sure, it has been challenging to be a single mother, but Ange likes her life like this—complete. She has a wonderful employer, great friends, and a bundle of joy that is her daughter. As beautiful as it is, however, a part of Ange feels confined to living a life that she has meticulously scripted. Most girls around her age are going out to clubs and kissing boys who don’t care, yet on this Friday, Ange is finishing up a shift and heading home to look out after her daughter. There is nothing shameful about that, but sometimes Ange does wish that she could do something chaotic without or with only a few repercussions.

Sighing, Ange takes out her phone, but she doesn’t call a taxi; she calls Camille who picks up with the most exaggerated hello ever.

“Allô, oui?” Camille croons over the phone. “Do you have my éclairs?”

Ange rolls her eyes playfully. “They’re in a bag, and they’re on their way. I just have a favor to ask you, okay?”

“What is it?”

“I’m going to Champ de Mars,” Ange answers as she bites her bottom lip. She probably shouldn’t be doing this, but she has it all figured out in her head. Around this time of the year, Champ de Mars is crowded with tourists trying to get their pictures. Even at night, locals visit the scenic park. Due to its location by the Eiffel Tower, it receives fairly a large amount of attention.

“Champ de Mars?” Camille repeats in French. “Why? You’ve been there a hundred times already.”

“I know,” Ange replies, “but I just wanna go on a walk, and it’s a very public area, so it’s safe. I’m just letting you know that I’ll be home later.”

“Alright.” Camille sounds unsure, but she relents fairly easily. “How long?”

“Um, maybe about half an hour?”

“I suppose that’s fine.” Camille’s voice is quite calm, giving relief to Ange. She was expecting hesitance from the perpetually busy Camille. “I’ve tried twice, and Luna still doesn’t want to go to bed, so I can wait a little longer—as long as you bring me my éclairs.”

“I’ll make sure to bring you every last piece,” Ange says with a chuckle. “I’ll see you later. Goodnight.”

With that, Ange takes a deep breath and heads outside to call for a taxi.

She shouldn’t be doing this, and she knows that, so if she’s going to do it, then she’s going to be the safest as possible. Fortunately, the Bassins du Champ de Mars is located on a public avenue that sees cars drive across it nearly 24/7. In addition, the gift cart that sells cheesy French memorabilia is located on that avenue, so all Ange has to do is stand near it, and she assures herself with the protection of a witness—in case anything goes wrong. Her first line of defense, of course, is her handy pepper spray, and she’ll keep her hand around that no matter what happens.

As the taxi that picks her up drives her across Paris’ arrondissements, Ange tries to think of all the possible people that could have sent that card for her. Her first guess is the notorious Junmyeon, but Junmyeon’s also not the kind of person to leave business cards. His style is extortion, meaning a gun to the face and strong words asking for a confrontation. Besides, how would he even know where Ange is? She flew to Paris on a forged passport, and she hasn’t made a single new friend except for her employer, Remy.

The taxi driver must think Ange is a foreigner because he takes the scenic route besides the Seine. Because it’s Paris, City of Lights, even the dark waters of the Seine River shine like its half-water and half-glitter.

Finally, after several short stops to let groups of tourists cross a road, the taxi arrives at the Bassins du Champ de Mars. Although its name suggests a landmark of sorts, the “Bassins” is merely a fountain that lies in the middle of an avenue that runs parallel to where the Eiffel Tower is located. The Bassin is also conveniently located in the middle of Champ de Mars—a public greenspace with long rows of lawns and trees.

“Merci beaucoup,” Ange thanks the driver before climbing out of his taxi. Thankfully, he dropped her off right in front of the gift cart where several tourists are combing through its merchandise.

As Ange stands near the cart for light, she takes out the mysterious business card to read it again—as if changed times or locations for some reason.

20h30 means 8:30 in the evening, and it’s only 8:20, so Ange has some time left. She tries use that time to do something productive like scan her surroundings, but there is nothing that grabs at her attention as suspicious. It almost feels like a harmless prank that someone would send her a business card for the reason of wasting her time.

However, after only a few minutes of standing around, Ange sees a black car seemingly approaching her. While several other cars have passed by her at this point, she’s curious of this one specific car because it’s a Lamborghini Huracan, and even in Paris, those are a sight to see.

Although Ange thinks that the Lamborghini will pass her just like any other car, it stops directly in front of her, and the window lowers.

“Hey!” a voice from within the car yells. Ange can barely recognize it as familiar, but it’s familiar, alright. She has definitely heard it before, though she’s hesitant to come any closer since she can’t see the face of the voice. “Ange!” the voice yells again, and this time, Ange is sure that she knows who it belongs to. With a deep tone like that, there can only be one person—and he exits his Lamborghini, confirming her suspicions. He looks over the roof of his car and leans an arm against it. The last time Ange saw him, his hair was pink, and now it’s a platinum blond.

“Chanyeol?” Ange asks in shock.

“So you got my card,” Chanyeol says with a smile. “Alina said you almost wouldn’t take it.”

“Well…” Ange has the courage to walk a little bit closer. She makes sure that she’s at least a few steps away from Chaneyol’s car—close enough that she doesn’t have to yell, but not so close that she’s standing within an arm’s length away. “You have to understand my thought process,” she answers carefully. “Why’d you even send a card? And why are you here? Is Junmyeon after me?”

“Easy on the questions,” Chanyeol replies. “I promise I’m not here with bad news. As for the card, well, I don’t have a good answer.” He shrugs a shoulder and motions for Ange to get closer. “It was sending a mystery card or showing up at the bakery and giving you a heart attack.”

“How did you even know I work there?” Ange interrogates. She crosses her arms in defiance. “And I’m not getting in that car with you and going God-knows-where.”

“I’ll tell you,” Chanyeol says cryptically, “but you have to get in first. I don’t like talking in the open, Ange.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Ange challenges. Although Chanyeol is the one who gave her a passport and a ticket to Paris, a year of thought and adulthood has made her naturally weary of anyone like him. Paris is no stranger to gangs, and she knows Chanyeol to be a gang member. “I’m not getting in,” she insists. “You can tell me from here.”

“No can do.” Chanyeol crosses his arms over the roof of his car. “Come on. It’s me. If I wanted you dead or kidnapped, I would have already done that without sending you a fancy-schmancy business card.” He arches a brow. “Now, get in. I don’t like waiting.”

“Why?”

Chanyeol’s patience must have ran thin at that point because he sighs loudly. “I got news about Junmyeon,” he finally gives a straight answer.

“Am-Am I in danger?” Ange gasps, her heart dropping to her stomach. “I-I-Is he coming for me?”

“Get in, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

Ange really doesn’t want to get in Chanyeol’s car, but admittedly, Chanyeol is of the lesser threat. Compared to someone like Junmyeon, Chanyeol is only a mild danger. If he has information on Junmyeon, then it’s in Ange’s best interest to at least hear him out. After all, she has a family now—a life that she wants to protect. If hearing about a potential danger can help protect her, then she’ll stomach getting into Chanyeol’s car. Besides, she has pepper spray with her.

“Fine,” Ange finally agrees. She steps inside Chanyeol’s car. Once she’s seated, she’s reminded of all those night drives with Baekhyun since it has been that long since she was sitting in the passenger seat of a car like this.

“Was that so difficult?” Chanyeol asks. He revs the engine of the Lamborghini and begins driving it down the avenue.

“A little bit. Now what were you saying about Junmyeon?”

“Oh, him? Yeah, he’s dead.”

Ange pauses in shock. The great supervillain Kim Junmyeon is dead? It’s almost too good to be true, and therefore, she doesn’t believe Chanyeol right away.

“He’s not actually dead,” Ange says. “You came all the way to Paris just to tell me that he’s dead? I don’t believe you for a second.”

“I’d show you his dead body if I could,” Chanyeol retorts, “but it’s at the bottom of the Han River, probably so ing decomposed that his face is twice the size of a basketball.” He glances at Ange with a frown. “And please. I came here to drop off a special package to a friend.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Look, you don’t have to believe me, I get that, but don’t mistake me for a bullter—because I’m not that.” Chanyeol makes a small turn that goes to a road passing by the Cathédrale Saint-Louis des Invalides. Since it closes much earlier than shops during the holidays, no tourists are present now, and its adjacent street—L’Avenue de Tourville-is nearly devoid of any cars except for three including Chanyeol’s. “I’m a lot more honorable since we last talked, Ange.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that I’m not gonna lie to your face anymore.”

“Huh?” Ange frowns. Chanyeol has parked his car on the side of the street, enabling the two of them to make lasting eye contact. “You lied to me?” she queries. “About what?”

“Well, do you remember Baekhyun?”

Ange scoffs at the ridiculous question. She couldn’t forget Baekhyun if she tried to drown herself or date another man. She sees Baekhyun in her own daughter, after all. Forgetting him would take an act of God or her own death. Even then, she’s sure that her versions of heaven or hell would include Baekhyun