“Let’s get moving,” she whispered, swiftly grabbing my hand as we danced through the bones and into the light. With each clumsy, wine-soaked step, we paraded through this city that wasn’t ours. We twirled as if every cabaret in the entire history of this place was radiating from our very being. A constant buzz of rhythm bounced through the curved back alleys, while harmonies hurtled from tiled rooftops. As we swayed with the sounds of the city, our bellies filled with fermented grape juice and pungent cheeses, I could finally remember what it felt like to be alive.
We resettled our souls among the dead as droplets pierced the sun’s rays. Enclosed in a ring of endless lovers, we embraced as the Parisians do. “Imagine all the stories buried here,” she murmured. As the mist blanketed down and the crows fluttered past, a thought arose inside me. We were crafting our own narrative, just like our ghostly neighbors. The moment filled my mind with a warmth that was accentuated by her touch.
“This is the first volume of our odyssey, a tale that we will take beyond the grave.”