Early light rises in the east, above the tall pine trees alongside the road. A couple of hours ago, I called my dad with the burner Frank gave me. I told him my mom found me and that she's taking me to Europe right away. I wasn't aloud to say much more. Both Frank and my mom feared that my dad's phone could be tapped. I know I would probably see my dad again soon, once I'm safe and sound in Europe, but something stuck in my throat when I told him goodbye.

Once more I close my eyes, head leaning against the car window. I wanted to sleep, but I couldn't. In the past twenty-four hours alone, I have been betrayed by a man I thought I could trust, Jabari, I have kissed Frank, I was reunited with my mother after a full decade and a half, and I've witnessed the death of two men by the hands of my own mother. I don't want to sleep right now, even if it's just because I'm afraid of the dreams that might come to haunt me.

Instead, I just rest my eyes.

My mom has been making all sorts of calls, after my talk with dad. Even though she speaks softly, perhaps thinking I'm asleep and not wanting to wake me, I listen carefully to her voice. As in trance, I listen to the foreign and complex combinations of tones, oblivious as to their meaning. I wonder if her voice will ever sound familiar again.

I shift my gaze to the man sitting next to her. "There's nothing I would want more", he said.

It makes me smile.

At last I fall asleep, with the soothing thought that I'll be okay.

With Frank, I will be okay.

I water my mint plant, resting peacefully on the windowsill. I managed to keep him alive for more than a month. Never having kept a green life lush and living for this long before, I unexpectedly found him growing on me. I thus baptized him 'Gary' and allocated him to the most luxurious spot in my apartement a plant can wish for. Too bad I have to say goodbye to him now.

Squinting my eyes against the rising sun, I reread the birthday card I got last night. 'Dear princess. I miss you so. I can't believe my little girl is already turning 21! I am so very proud of you. Much love. Dad.' I press the card against my chest, as if it somehow would bring me closer to him.

I haven't seen my father since he last visited me, here in Lyon, about six months ago.

I put the card beside my little plant, as though they might keep each other company, and I put on a winter coat while taking one last look of my apartment.

Au revoir.

And that's it. I leave and don't look back.

I walk down the stairs and as soon as I swing open the front door, I brace myself for the harsh January winter wind. With lifted shoulders, I bury my face into my scarf and walk stark ahead. I've walked only one block, when the icy air begins to sting the skin on my cheekbones.

Almost there. I repeat as a mantra, giving me mental strength to battle these chilling forces of nature just a little longer.

Finally, I find shelter against a stone wall of a majestic post-medieval church. Shielded from harsh winds, I attempt to warm my hands. Off all days, today had to be the coldest. How very fitting.

I press my weight against a massive oak door, to open it. Once inside, I repeat the action in reverse, and the door ultimately closes with a sound baritone.

As I enter the church, my boots resonate through the space. However remarkably build, it remains just as could inside. Yet I'm grateful for the guardianship. The winds outside stand no chance against the immense walls of this edifice.

I walk to a row of benches, somewhat in the middle of the church. I let down my head as I'm seated, prepared to be submerged in thought. Never have I been a religious person. Nevertheless, even I feel small in a place like this. The church's atmosphere reaches my mind space, and for many moments, I let my mind peacefully wander.

I often think about my life. Sometimes I think about the past; how lucky I've been to make it to Europe in one piece. I think about the horrible things that had happened, to me and others; but also the beautiful. Every once in awhile, I think of my future.

Will I ever be safe? Where should I build a life? What kind of a person do I want to be?

At times I ask myself if I'll ever even be a whole person again.

In a distance behind me, I notice small steps being taken to the front of the church. An elderly lady, dressed in black fur, dark gloves and boots treads the middle passage. A couple rows to my front, she bows her head respectfully to the anterior of the church before sitting down.

Out of the protection of her heavy garments, she reveals a picture of a man. Carefully, as not to damage the precious possession, she brings the picture to her lips. She breaths "Mon chéri", whereupon pressing the picture to her chest and lowering her head, in an empty embrace.

I engulf her tristesse, as a warm tear slithers over my porcelain cold cheek.

I grieve with this woman, although I do not know her, because her pain is my acquaintance.

In silence, I rise and leave her behind, to let her be with her bittersweet memories. I pause briefly before going outside, to put on my gloves. Even though I know what coldness awaits me outside, still it shocks my body. The serenity of church briskly departs my soul and I am left again, alone, to face fierceness.

I mostly think of my life as it is now, though; in its present day.

I struggle my way through the field of persistent stones. I squint my eyes, in the effort to see where I'm going.

I'm thankful for whom I have, without retaining whom I lost.

I halt at a particularly striking grave stone. This one isn't as worn down as most of the others, apart from the occasional sticks and lifeless leafs that stain his grave. On my knees, I do my best to remove them. Remarkably enough, his gravestone returns some of my warmth, strategically shielding me from icy winds.

There is always something to be thankful for. If not for what I have now, then for what I had the privilege to have had.

I remove a glove and touch his icecold engraved name with my fingertips. Frank J. Reinhardt. Because life is precious and temporary, never knowing which day will be the last. I am merely a witness; a visitor. I retract my hand, now red with cold.

I wonder what Frank and I would have become, if we had met under different circumstances. Would he notice me at a party? Would he have approached me then? I chuckle softly in my scarf, imagining the silly scene. Frank doesn't really do party's.

I bring my fingertips to my lips, press a kiss on them, and carry it to his name. Goodbye forever, Frank J. Reinhardt. A couple of tears unwillingly escape my eyes.

At a distance, I watch a man lay a bouquet of white daffodils at a grave. It's a pity those flowers won't stand a single night in this cold.

I rise, tighten my winter coat, and leave.

I inevitably reach the man with daffodils. He's completely captivated by the gravestone before which he stands. Not even the robust winds seem to bother him, as he stands idle, stationary like a statue. I pass the man in silence, allowing myself merely a modest glance at the grave stone.

With an invisible dagger in my heart I read her name.

I pass more grave stones then I can count, before finally reaching the church once more. Without going back inside, I go around the massive building, to its front. It has begun snowing. White, fluffy flakes whirl from the sky, down to the pavement's surface. A black car, parked in the street, is increasingly being covered by the white substance. I walk towards it and, to my surprise, find it unlocked. Finding the keys still inside the car, I take place in the driver's seat. In a determined effort to warm myself up, I start the engine and enable the heating system.

I rest the back of my head to the seat's head restraint, while the snowfall outside progressively intensifies. It made me notice the man only when he was already at the car. Escaping the impending blizzard, he takes place in the passenger's seat, shaking the car under his weight.

Our eyes interlock.

We search for the other, beneath the surface of what is visible. He only asks if I'm going to drive.

I turn on the car's headlights and windscreen wipers.

I nod. "Oui."

With caution, I drive onto the street and past the graveyard, heading for the main road.

I don't look back.

Goodbye forever,

Giselle R. Paques.