When Penelope’s boring life gave way to vibrant dreamscapes and a charming stranger, she found herself caught between two realities. As her waking hours faded and her fantastical world brightened, she discovered that the most perfect love almost killed her.
The quiet of my apartment always hit the hardest on weekday evenings. Not the peaceful kind of quiet that wraps around you like a soft blanket, but the hollow kind that echoes with all the conversations you’re not having.
I stood in the hallway outside my door, fishing for keys in my purse. When I finally unlocked the door, the sound bounced off the walls of the empty corridor, a lonely percussion that followed me inside.
My apartment was just as I’d left it that morning. Small. Tidy. Quiet. The sort of place that could belong to anyone, really.
There were a few framed photos on the wall, my mother and me at my college graduation, and a group shot from the library staff Christmas party three years ago, but nothing that screamed, “Penelope lives here.”
I tossed my keys onto the little table by the door and headed for the freezer. It was Tuesday, which meant frozen lasagna night. I stuck it in the microwave and watched it rotate slowly behind the glass door.
“Exciting life you lead, Penelope,” I muttered to myself.
I ate at my kitchen table, staring blankly at an old sitcom rerun on my television. The canned laughter felt jarring in the stillness of my apartment. When I finished, I washed my plate, brushed my teeth, and climbed into bed.
Another day done. Another day just like the rest, I thought as I closed my eyes, waiting for sleep to come.
***
Sunlight streamed through large windows, warming my face. The soft chatter of conversations and the gentle clinking of cups filled the air. I sat up straighter, blinking in the brightness.
This wasn’t my bedroom. I was sitting at a small table in a café, surrounded by the buzz of morning patrons. “Café Lumière,” read a painted sign above the counter.
Through the windows, I could see a bustling park that looked nothing like the ones in my hometown. Pigeons even gathered around an ornate fountain at its center.
“May I offer you a cappuccino? It is a beautiful morning, and you look like you could use a warm drink.”
I looked up to find a man standing beside my table. He was tall, maybe 40, with kind eyes and the sort of smile that made you want to smile back. He held two cups, one extended toward me.
“I… yes. Thank you,” I said, surprised by my own quick acceptance.
“I am Thierry,” he said, sitting down across from me at the wrought-iron table. “And you are…?”
“Penelope.”
“Penelope,” he repeated, my name sounding different in his gentle French accent. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”
We talked for what felt like hours, about books and art and places we’d been. I found myself laughing more than I had in years, opening up to this stranger in ways I never did at home.
“Would you like to walk with me to the market?” he asked after we’d emptied our cups. “The flower market is lovely this time of day.”
I nodded, wondering briefly how I’d gotten there, but the thought slipped away as we stepped out into the sunshine.
The market was a riot of color and sound. Vendors called out their wares in French and English. Vibrant flowers spilled from buckets, their sweet scent mingling with the savory aroma of fresh bread and pastries.
“Try this,” Thierry said, offering me a flaky pastry dusted with powdered sugar. Our fingers brushed as I took it, and I felt a warmth spread through me that had nothing to do with the sunshine.
We wandered through the stalls, stopping to admire handcrafted jewelry and sample cheeses. A street performer juggled oranges nearby while calling out jokes that made the gathering crowd laugh.
“You are beautiful when you smile,” Thierry said, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “You should do it more often.”
I grinned even wider.
But before I could answer with a similar compliment, the colors of the market began to blur around the edges, the sounds growing distant.
“Thierry?” I reached for his hand, but it felt like moving through water.
“Do not worry,” he said, his voice fading. “I will find you again.***
The harsh buzz of my alarm jolted me awake. 6:30 a.m. Wednesday. The memory of the market lingered as I stared at the gray light filtering through my blinds. For a moment, I could still smell the flowers, feel the warmth of Thierry’s hand in mine.
But that was ridiculous. It had been a dream. Just a dream.
I went through the motions of my morning routine. Shower. Coffee. Cereal. The whole time, my mind kept drifting back to the café, to Thierry’s smile, to the way the sun had felt on my skin.
The library was quiet that day, even for a Wednesday. I shelved books mechanically, my body on autopilot while my mind wandered.
The brightly colored spines of children’s books reminded me of the flowers at the market. A book on French cuisine made me think of the pastry Thierry had given me.
“Excuse me, miss? Can you help me find the large print section?”
I blinked, realizing I’d been standing in the same spot for several minutes.
“Of course,” I told the elderly woman. “Right this way.”
The rest of the day passed slowly. I answered questions, checked out books, and stared out the window at the parking lot, all the while thinking about a man I’d never met in real life.
That night, I skipped my usual TV show and went straight to bed.
***
Golden light bathed the rolling hills of a vast park. I found myself sitting on a checkered blanket beside a sparkling lake, the water reflecting the late afternoon sun like scattered diamonds.
“It’s my favorite place in the world,” Thierry said, following my gaze across the water. “Beautiful, is it not?”
“It’s amazing,” I said, turning to him. He looked just as I remembered—warm eyes, gentle smile, and a face that somehow felt as familiar as my own reflection despite having seen it only once before.
“I brought a picnic.” He gestured to a wicker basket beside us. “I remembered you liked the cheese from the market.”
He unpacked the basket, laying out bread, cheese, fruit, and a bottle of wine. We ate and talked as the sun began its slow descent toward the horizon.
“Tell me, Penelope,” he said, pouring me a glass of wine, “what are your dreams?”
I laughed. “Isn’t this a dream?”
He smiled, but didn’t answer. “Everyone has dreams. Things they wish for. Things they hope.”
I lay back on the blanket, looking up at the clouds drifting lazily overhead, as I considered his question. “I don’t know. To not be lonely, I guess. To feel like I matter to someone.”
“You matter to me,” he said simply, lying down beside me. “What are you afraid of?”
“Being forgotten,” I answered without thinking. “Living my whole life without ever really being seen.”
He turned on his side to face me, his gaze intent. “I see you, Penelope.”
Those four words hit me with surprising force. Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes.
