At the beginning of summer, the Parisian air seemed to hold its breath. The Seine glided by, heavy and silent, and the city, scorched by the morning light, was a chaotic jumble of scaffolding, honking horns, and hurried footsteps. Antoine, headphones on, slipped into his cramped studio apartment in the 18th arrondissement. A torn sign on his door indicated the work being done: “Upgrade to code – Gas intervention – Thank you for your understanding.”
He had no understanding. Just a business meeting, a train to catch, and the feeling of constantly being behind schedule.

He grabbed his bag, ruffled his already unruly brown hair, and slipped into the hallway. In front of the building’s entrance, a crumpled notice was taped to the window of the utility room: “System failure – emergency intervention – building temporarily inaccessible.” Again. Antoine swore, took off his headphones, and let them dangle around his neck. They were the only headphones he used for recording—his job as a sound editor meant he carried this equipment around like an extension of himself.

He bounded down the stairs, bumping into a neighbor who offered a half-hearted apology. Once outside, the Parisian air hit him: dense, humid, alive.

“Come on, breathe, old man…” he muttered to himself.

He hopped on his old electric bike, programmed a route on his phone, and headed into traffic. Paris vibrated, rumbled. On Boulevard Magenta, a delivery driver nearly knocked him over.

“Are you crazy or what?!” Antoine shouted.

But his voice was lost in the cacophony of sirens and pedestrians.

A turn. A jolt. A scream.

His bike skidded, hitting a small, poorly marked metal post. Antoine was thrown onto the sidewalk, his helmet escaping from his bag and rolling to the edge of the road.

A moment of silence. Then the pain.

He struggled to his feet, looked at his scraped hands, and retrieved his helmet, a clean crack now running across the shell.

“Great. Just great…”

His eyes then fell on a blue flyer, which had blown out of his bag: “Exhibition of Painters of the Coast – Marseille – Port du Vallon.” He had received it from a distant acquaintance. An invitation to meet a young artist whose unique vision was being praised. Antoine had smiled when he read it. Marseille? Too far, too hot, too impromptu. Not for him. And yet, he hadn’t thrown the paper away.

He picked it up, and, without thinking too much, told himself that he needed air. Real air. Not the one saturated with Parisian anger. The train to Marseille was leaving in an hour.

He gritted his teeth.

“Well… why not.”

A few hours later, the Mediterranean stretched its slow, blue breath before him. Nothing like Paris. The distant cries of seagulls, the smell of salt, the harsh light on the scorched rocks… Antoine walked towards the Vallon des Auffes, without knowing exactly what he was looking for.

That’s when he saw her.

A young woman, dressed in a pale shirt tied at the waist, a light scarf holding her hair back in the wind. She carried her helmet in her hand—a scooter helmet, marked by the wear and tear of travel.

Her scooter, parked near the rocks, seemed to be waiting for a new adventure. She, on the other hand, was watching the sea as if listening to it breathe.

Antoine remained motionless for a moment. There was something strange about her. A gentleness mixed with a silent strength. A presence.

She turned, her gray eyes meeting his.

“Are you lost?” she asked, her southern accent slightly drawling.

“It certainly seems so,” replied Antoine, surprised by the frankness of his own voice.

She smiled.

“Then you’re in the right place. Everyone gets lost here. That’s precisely why we come back.”

Her name was Élise. A painter. A daughter of the coast, raised among lighthouses, fishing boats, and the scent of burnt rosemary on the hills.

She was preparing an exhibition inspired by her memories: the water, the mistral mornings, the boats setting sail at sunrise.

“Do you know Frioul?” she asked him one evening, putting away her brushes in her makeshift studio, a small wooden cabin on the clifftop.

“Only by name.”

“Then come.” There’s a place out there… a place I go to when I need to remember.

They took his scooter, speeding along the coastal road. The wind roared around them. Antoine, clinging to Elise’s waist, felt for the first time in a long time that forgotten sensation:
being alive.

The boat to the island dropped them off a few meters from the white rocks. They walked in silence to the old, abandoned lighthouse.

Elise sat down and placed her helmet beside her.

“My father was a lighthouse keeper. He taught me to listen to the sea. To understand that it never says the same thing twice. That’s why I paint.”

She gazed at the horizon, her shoulders trembling slightly.

“Sometimes I wonder if… if I’ll ever find it again.”

That peace.

“You still carry it,” said Antoine. “Even if you can’t see it.”

She turned a surprised, almost fragile look toward him.

Antoine felt as if he were telling her something beyond himself. As if the sea were speaking through him.

The setting sun tinted the cliffs a deep orange. They stayed there for a long time, without a word, letting the wind fill the silences.

The following days were a succession of walks, confidences, and shared silences. Élise showed him her places: the alleyways of Noailles, the hidden staircases leading to the sea, the scents of the morning markets.

Antoine, for his part, was recording her. Not her. Not her voice.

But the sounds of his city, the bursts of laughter, the guitar notes of a street musician, the whisper of the wind in the Friuli pines.

“Why are you recording all this?” asked Élise.

“So I don’t forget. I work with sound. And… I think I’m always afraid things will disappear if I don’t keep them somewhere.”

“Memories don’t disappear, Antoine. They change. That’s all.”

He looked at her, struck by the simplicity of her words.

“And you?” he asked. “What exactly are you looking for in your paintings?”

“I’m looking for the sea. Or maybe… I’m looking for what I’ve lost.”

She smiled sadly.
Antoine didn’t ask any questions. He sensed that Élise was walking a fine line between strength and pain.

One evening, as Marseille blazed under the port lights, they rode through the city on a scooter. Antoine was wearing Élise’s helmet, too big for him but covered in marks, memories, and travels.

At a red light, Élise turned to him.

“You know… I’d like to paint a picture of you. Not your face. You in a place you love. Where do you feel at home?”

Antoine froze.
“At home.”

He’d never been able to answer that question.

“I have no idea.”

Élise nodded, without judgment.

“Then we’ll build it. Together.”

She started the scooter again. Antoine felt the warm wind caress his face.
He thought that maybe he could… stay a while.

But miracles rarely last.
One morning, while they were setting up canvases in the studio, Élise received a call. She walked away, her voice breaking, her eyes suddenly lifeless. Antoine understood before she even spoke.

“It was the hospital in Montpellier…” she whispered. They admitted my mother. It’s serious. They… they don’t know if she’ll make it through the night.

She picked up her helmet, trembling as she tried to fasten the chin strap.

Antoine approached quietly.

“I’ll come with you.”

She looked up, hesitated, then shook her head.

“No. This is my story. Not yours.”

“Elise…”

“I’ll explain later. Don’t come. Please.”

She got on her scooter, the engine roared, and she disappeared into the white morning light, without a backward glance.

Antoine remained alone in the silent workshop.
He found his cracked helmet—the one he’d damaged when he fell in Paris—lying on a table, next to a small scribbled note:

“Don’t forget to breathe. —Elise.”

He took it in his hands. The broken plastic seemed to tell the whole story.

So he did something he never did:

he listened.

To the wind.

To the sea.

To the memory of Elise.

Then he walked back up the cliff to the Frioul Islands. The lighthouse was empty. The sky gray. The sea heavy.

He placed the helmet on the ground, facing the horizon.

“This is where you belong, Antoine,” he murmured, as if trying to convince himself. “Here. Not in Paris. Not in the past. Here, with her.”

He closed his eyes.

A sudden gust of wind lifted the helmet, sending it rolling over the rocks to the edge of the precipice. Antoine rushed forward, catching it just before it fell into the sea.

He stood there, alone, his heart pounding.

And then, he understood.

He had to find her.

The train to Montpellier was leaving in an hour. Antoine didn’t hesitate.

Evening was falling when he arrived at the hospital. The corridor smelled of disinfectant and fatigue. Elise was sitting on a bench, her hands clasped tightly together. Her eyes looked up, surprised to see him.

“Antoine… I told you not to come.”

“I know. But you’re not alone. Not because of this.”

She looked down.

Her fingers were trembling.

“She’s asleep…” she said in a subdued voice. “The doctors don’t know. They can’t promise anything.”

Antoine sat down next to her.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t touch her hands.

He simply stayed there, with her, like a silent, solid presence.

After a long moment, Elise breathed:

“I was scared.” Afraid that… that if you saw this part of my life, you would disappear too.

“I’m here,” he replied softly. “I’m here as long as you want me to be.”

Elise’s tears flowed slowly.
Antoine placed his cracked helmet on his knee.

“You see this crack?” he said. “I wanted to fix it. Then I understood something.
It’s not the crack that matters.
It’s

what she was saying.

Elise looked up at him, shaken.

“You’re crazy, Antoine.”

“A little, yes.”

She smiled, a fragile but genuine smile, the one he thought he’d lost that morning.

“So… stay with me tonight?”

“As long as you want.”

Antoine took her hand.
In the cold hospital light, their shadows merged on the floor.

The sea wasn’t there, but Antoine could feel it beating in his chest.

And for the first time in a long time, he felt at home.