Tristan Vol 4 Chapter 1 with Audiobook

By: Asa Montreaux

The Parisian summer draped the city in a warm golden hue, and I could feel the cobblestones radiate the heat of the afternoon sun as I walked alongside Maisie. The Seine shimmered under the evening sky, a deep blue streak cutting through the heart of the city. It had been a long day, but one that felt impossibly light. The weight of our pasts, our memories, felt softened by the sheer brilliance of being here together.

Maisie squeezed my hand, her fingers warm against mine. "Alors, où allons-nous ce soir?" she asked playfully.

I smiled. "On pourrait aller au Marais? Prendre un verre quelque part?"

She nodded. "Oui, ou peut-être Saint-Germain? Il y a un endroit que j’aime bien."

Even after months in Paris, I still marveled at the way the language rolled effortlessly from her tongue. French had become an essential part of our daily lives. We spoke it with strangers, with gallery owners, with waiters at cafés, though between us, English still served as the thread connecting all the deeper parts of ourselves.

Earlier that day, I had returned from a brief trip to the south of France—Avignon, Arles, and Nice—photographing landscapes and city streets, capturing the quiet elegance of small villages and the untamed splendor of the Mediterranean. The gallery in Paris had accepted my latest work, and the opening was in a week. Maisie had promised to help me set it up.

"You should show the one from the lavender fields," she had said when I first laid them out on our dining table.

"The one with the sky almost violet?"

"Yes. It’s stunning. Like a painting."

Her encouragement had meant everything. She understood how much this work meant to me. Photography had been a passion that had only recently become something more—something real, something sustaining. It was the kind of work that let me see the world as I wanted to see it, and Paris, in its own way, had allowed me to shape myself into something new.

As we walked through the Latin Quarter, weaving through tourists and locals alike, I thought about how different our lives had become. We spoke of things we had never talked about before—our childhoods, our families, the moments that had shaped us.

"Did you ever think you'd live in Paris?" she asked me as we crossed Pont Neuf.

"No," I admitted. "I always thought I'd end up somewhere quieter. But now, I can't imagine being anywhere else."

She smiled. "I always imagined being here. When I was a kid, I used to pretend I was already living in Paris. I'd read old novels and dream about walking these streets."

"And now you’re here."

She leaned in and kissed me lightly. "And now we’re here."

The night unfolded like so many before it. We found a quiet bar tucked away in an alley, its entrance framed by vines and flickering lanterns. Inside, the walls were lined with old books, the shelves packed with dusty paperbacks and yellowed hardcovers. We ordered wine—something local, something red. We sat in the dim glow, leaning toward each other as we spoke.

"Tell me about your first kiss," she said suddenly, tilting her head.

I laughed. "My first kiss? You want the truth or the better version?"

"The truth, always."

I took a sip of my wine. "It was at a school dance. Eighth grade. I was terrible at it."

"Did you love her?"

"At thirteen? God, no. I think I was more relieved to have gotten it over with. What about you?"

She hesitated, then smiled. "It was underwhelming. A boy named Daniel, at summer camp. We both felt we were supposed to, so we did."

"No fireworks?"

"Not even a spark."

We moved through topics easily—first dates, childhood games, the things we obsessed over when we were younger. We talked about movies, about how she had grown up watching old black-and-white films while I had spent too many hours playing video games like Call of Duty with friends. We debated which was the better use of time. She was convinced she had the superior childhood. I wasn't sure she was wrong.

Later, as we walked home, the city felt impossibly still despite the low hum of life continuing around us.

"We should go away for a while," she mused. "Somewhere in the countryside. Maybe take the train, or drive?"

I thought about it. "Where to?"

"Italy. Spain. Anywhere."

"We could take the Bentley I rented last time."

She grinned. "So impractical."

"But fun."

"We’ll think about it."

We reached our apartment, a small but beautiful place overlooking the rooftops. We could see the Eiffel Tower in the distance, twinkling every hour like clockwork. Inside, I set my camera down, flipping through the images from my latest trip. She stood behind me, resting her chin on my shoulder.

"You’re getting better," she murmured.

"You think so?"

"I know so."

She kissed the back of my neck, and for a moment, everything felt unreal—the way we had ended up here, the way life had unfolded. We had found something in each other, something steady and wild all at once.

As the city stretched beyond our window, I knew we had time. Time to explore, time to talk, time to love. And tomorrow, we would do it all again.