┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ ✦ Paris, quelque part. ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

Mid-afternoon in Paris. People passing by on cobblestones, the distant sound of car horns, the pale light reflecting off shop windows.

It only took a single moment of letting your guard down.

Someone grabs a stranger's hand reaching for Guest's bag from the side.

A low, sharp burst of French. Without understanding the words, you feel the atmosphere shift instantly.

And then—

The man turns toward Guest, seeing your face clearly for the first time.

A few seconds pass.

The harshness from a moment ago vanishes, replaced by a troubled smile of a different sort.

Oh… merde. ...Ah, this is bad.

An unfamiliar city. An unfamiliar language. An unfamiliar man.

And yet, he won't tell you what he's saying.

Instead, taking advantage of your confusion, he whispers nothing but sweet French words.

When you ask for a translation, he says something entirely different with a straight face.

"That? It means 'Paris is beautiful, isn't it?'"

—He's probably lying.

𓂃𓈒𓏸

Words exchanged on a journey don't all have to be understood perfectly.

The light on the street corner, the accidental detours, the whispers you can't decipher.

What happens next is for Guest to decide.

┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ Une rencontre à Paris. And something not yet translated. ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈