Chapter 1
Sky
Today
Every time autumn blankets Paris with its vibrant colors, the nights turn cool, and the mornings are shrouded in mist, I love coming here to Montmartre. Today, I stroll along the cobbled alley with picturesque houses, accompanied by Aurora. I unbutton the top button of my oversized cropped coat and take a sip of my steaming to-go hot chocolate.
It tastes like comfort, like a warm fireplace and long, starry nights. It tastes like winter. And a little bit like home. Wistfully, I exhale against the tightness that inevitably settles over my chest.
"So when's the big day?" I ask, trying to distract myself.
Aurora smiles, her cheeks turning rosy. "We're getting married in mid-May at home in Tuscany. Will you come?"
I turn to her, seeing the sparkle in her eyes and the smile on her lips. Inevitably, I find myself grinning too. "Nothing will keep me away."
Immediately, I picture Aurora's wedding dress, simple, with delicate lace. It could have the shape of flowers, maybe with a pearl at the center of each blossom.
"We're inviting the whole village," she says, linking her arm with mine and resting her head on my shoulder. "Who knows, maybe you'll meet someone?"
That must never happen. "We'll see," I reply evasively, letting my gaze wander as we continue strolling along the alley.
The wild ivy cascading down the stone facade of the old building across the street shines in a deep red. The sky carries that dark navy blue, and the way the tree branches sway in the wind is full of gentleness. The world flows, and the movements blend harmoniously into a picture that clears my thoughts with its beauty. The wind blows my reddish curls into my face, shimmering in the mild autumn sunlight. I sigh deeply.
"Somewhere out there, someone is waiting for you too," Aurora's voice is gentle, almost cautious.
Not for the first time, she's trying to convince me of that. Because she doesn't know that it's impossible.
How can I let someone into my life when I have to hide so much about myself? Besides, thanks to my rose-tinted glasses, I wouldn't be able to distinguish right from wrong anymore.
It's just the way it is, and that's okay. I lack nothing, on the contrary, my life is full of abundance. My apartment in the 1st arrondissement is so spacious that I'll never be able to breathe all the air there. I volunteer as a dance teacher at the youth center and lead a free life.
Father has kept his word, and I fulfill my part of the agreement: no one knows who I really am. Not even Aurora.
"Sky?" My best friend nudges me from the side. "Everything okay?"
I quickly lift the corners of my mouth. "I'm enjoying this beautiful autumn day," I reply and gaze around so enchanted, as if I could hardly resist the charm of the artist's quarter.
"Well, I really have to go now." She bites her lower lip. "Maxime is probably waiting for me at the flower market."
"And love shouldn't be kept waiting." I hug my friend goodbye.
I watch her with a smile as she hops down the cobbled alley toward the Métro. Her long dark hair with its light tips sways in rhythm. Now she turns around and waves at me with a broad smile.
Seeing her so happy makes me happy too. I take the last sip of my now lukewarm chocolate and ponder how to spend the rest of the morning.
Last week, I came across an article about a new studio. The artist creates sculptures from fabrics.
Where was it again? I furrow my brow as I take my phone out of the crossbody bag. Didn't I bookmark it in my browser?
I open the app, and a message on the home screen catches my eye.
Mystery of tragic misfortune—fashion pope Gustav Blohm on the verge of death?
All of a sudden, I feel like an ice sculpture.
Immobile. Bitterly cold. Fragile.
As if paralyzed, I stare at the headline. Read it once, twice, three times.
Gustav Blohm. On the verge of death.
The words are in my head, but I don't truly understand their meaning. Not yet.
I tap on the headline to read the entire article. A picture of Father appears, and immediately, my stomach tightens. He looks directly into the camera with an engaging gaze, his chin slightly raised, his bushy eyebrows framing his bright eyes. The first streaks of gray run through his full beard. And although I see no more of him than the rest of the world does, I'm certain he's still the same.
Determined. Successful. Warm-hearted.
I swallow against the tightness in my throat and focus on the text. It's just a brief press release. On his way to the Fashion Week in Milan, Father had a car accident.
There's no image of the accident, so he must be conscious, or at least he was long enough to prevent the press from releasing details.
That's good.
I read on quickly.
Since the fateful accident just two days ago, silence surrounds the fashion icon. Rumors suggest he's hospitalized with severe injuries at the renowned Karolinska University Hospital in Stockholm.
The hush about his health has left die-hard fans breathless with anticipation. Is Gustav Blohm near death?
The text ends with this question.
The colorful world of Montmartre blurs around me, turning into a dark gray.
What if Father is actually on his deathbed?
I need to be with him.
Or do I?
Am I allowed to do that? Would he agree for me to return to Stockholm? Or does his decision even apply to a situation like this?
With pursed lips, I try to organize my thoughts.
"What's the worst that could happen?" I ask myself.
That Father dies without me seeing him one last time. Without us reconciling. Maybe he's still disappointed in me, but does that even matter?
For as long as I can remember, he's been there for me, even picking me up when I was at my lowest. He first gave me health and then this new life in Paris, which I've been living for five years now.
He was smart for me when I was foolish.
Now he's all alone, I'm sure of it. After all, Mother only cares about one person: herself. That was the case even before their divorce, and it's certainly not different now.
Father needs me. I want to be there for him.
So many years have passed, and not a single mistake has been made.
Maybe this is the right moment to reach out. Perhaps he can still find a way to forgive me.
We could get closer, become who we were before that summer. Father and daughter. A unity that nothing can tear apart.
I just need a plane ticket and the information on where exactly to find Father to give this hope a chance.
With trembling fingers, I open the Scandinavian Airlines website and book the next available flight.
Then I search for a phone number that I technically shouldn't have anymore.