Manuscript VII: Letters Beneath Stone

The loft was still thick with the scent of candle wax and rosewood when Lily stirred awake. Henri was already out of bed, his silhouette moving quietly across the room as he collected the scattered remnants of their night—her slip from the floor, his shirt draped over the back of a chair. The morning sun filtered through gauzy curtains, casting golden lattices across the hardwood.

But Lily didn't feel golden. She felt like something had cracked open inside her.

She sat up slowly, pulling the sheet around her chest, her gaze tracing the edge of the nightstand. And there it was—the little leather-bound journal she hadn't touched since arriving in Paris. It had belonged to her grandmother, slipped into her suitcase by her mother without explanation. Every time Lily opened it, the words inside felt like riddles.

She reached for it.

Henri turned. "Morning. I was just making coffee. Want some?"

She nodded distractedly, already thumbing through brittle pages. The script was elegant and old-fashioned, the ink slightly smudged in places. Most entries were innocuous—recipes, addresses, mentions of names she didn't recognize. But one line stood out now, more than ever:

"If you find this, look beneath the Place Dauphine bench. The truth isn't buried in stone, but in the letters we left behind."

She blinked. That line hadn't been there before. Or had she missed it?

Her breath caught. "Henri. Come here. Look at this."

He came over, coffee in hand, brows furrowed. "What's that?"

She handed him the journal. "My grandmother wrote this. She was in Paris during the war. This part—it sounds like a clue."

He scanned the line, the weight of it settling in the space between them.

"Do you know where Place Dauphine is?" she asked.

Henri nodded. "Of course. It's one of the quietest corners in Paris. Old stone benches, tucked between cafés. Why?"

Lily stood, the sheet falling away, forgotten. She reached for her clothes. "We're going. Now."

Henri chuckled. "Is this before or after breakfast?"

"This is breakfast," she said, lacing her boots with a kind of electric focus. "We might be digging up ghosts."

They left the loft with no real plan except curiosity and that trembling sense of purpose. Henri hailed a cab, and Lily clutched the journal to her chest, reading and re-reading the line. What letters? Why Place Dauphine? And how could this possibly still exist?

The cab rolled to a quiet stop on Rue de Harlay, right at the edge of Place Dauphine. The square was empty save for a few pigeons and the delicate rustle of spring leaves. Cobblestones cracked gently beneath their steps as they walked deeper in.

Henri gestured toward a bench beneath a flowering chestnut tree. "That's the one I remember. Always looked older than the others."

Lily approached it cautiously, palms sweating. The bench was weathered, carved with initials and heart symbols etched by strangers over the years. She ran her hand along the wooden seat, eyes scanning the gaps between the planks.

"Here," she said. Her finger had caught on something small—metallic. A screw.

Henri dropped to one knee and retrieved a small pocket tool from his bag. "Let me."

With care, he loosened the screws and pried up the board. Beneath it, wedged between old wood and crumbling stone, was a faded envelope tied with string. Lily's hands trembled as she reached for it.

She untied the string and opened the envelope. Inside were several letters—yellowed, fragile, written in the same slanted hand as the journal. Her grandmother's handwriting.

Henri stood beside her as she unfolded the first one.

May 12, 1942

My dearest Émile,

If you're reading this, then something must've happened. I never wanted this war to steal everything from us. Not our time, not our love. But if you're still here, if somehow you found this—I want you to know I never stopped loving you. I never married Pierre. It was all a lie to protect you. To protect our daughter.

Lily's breath hitched. "Our daughter?"

Henri's brow furrowed. "Is she talking about—"

Lily nodded slowly, heart pounding. "My mother always said my grandmother was a widow. But this… this changes everything."

She flipped to the second letter.

July 8, 1943

They're watching me now. I don't know how long I have. The Resistance is planning something, and I'm a part of it. If I disappear, tell our daughter who she is. Tell her where she comes from. Paris is her inheritance, not in gold, but in truth. Find her. She'll need to know.

The letter slipped from Lily's hands.

"I think we just found the past," she whispered.

Henri caught her hand. "And it's not finished with you yet."