PRECIPICE

I

Morning sunlight streamed through the sheer lace curtains of a modest kitchen in Paris, painting soft, golden patterns on the cobalt tiles. Marie, the mother, was in her mid-thirties, her hair pulled back in a messy bun, showing strands of premature grey. She stood over a sizzling pan, where apple slices were caramelizing gently, their sweet scent mingling with the robust aroma of freshly brewed coffee.

"Amélie! Dépêche-toi! We are late!" Marie called out, stirring the apples with one hand and flipping a crepe with practiced ease using the other—the sounds of her bustling blended harmoniously with the faint morning buzz of the city streets outside.

The sound of books and papers tumbling to the floor came from the small hallway. Améline, an energetic pre-teen with rebellious curls framing her face, emerged in a flurry of frustration. "I can't find my history homework! It's lost because you tidied up, maman!"

"It's not lost. Recheck your school bag,” Marie replied calmly without turning from the stove. “And have you seen your room? It's like a cyclone hit it!”

Amélie stomped back to her room, muttering under her breath. Moments later, she returned triumphantly, waving several crumpled sheets of paper. “Found it! See, it wasn’t in my bag!”

“Bravo,” Marie said dryly, plating the golden-brown crepes and topping them with the glossy caramelized apples. “Now eat quickly; we can’t be late again.”

The table was a small affair squeezed into one corner of the kitchen, barely large enough for the two of them. Every morning, it was the epicenter of their little world, cluttered with the remnants of their rushed starts—empty milk cartons, scattered crumbs, and yesterday's newspapers folded haphazardly.

As they ate, the sunlight shifted, casting light on Marie’s face, revealing the lines of fatigue that even her brisk efficiency couldn’t mask. Amélie watched her mother momentarily, a pang of guilt softening her earlier frustration. "Maman," she began hesitantly, "why don't we go to the park this weekend? Just us. You always look so tired."

Marie looked up from her coffee, her eyes softening. "That sounds lovely," she replied with a genuine smile. "Maybe we can even feed the ducks like we used to."

The suggestion hung in the air, imbued with a nostalgic warmth that seemed to slow down the pace of the morning momentarily. They finished their breakfast in companionable silence; each lost in their thoughts.

Marie cleaned up quickly while Amélie once again packed her school bag, ensuring her homework was securely placed. They stepped out into the bustling Parisian morning with one last glance at the kitchen that still smelled faintly of apples and coffee.

“Here, maman,” Amélie handed her mother the heart pendant she’d bought for Mother’s Day the year previous.

“Oh, thank you, my love. My brain this morning,” she said, taking the necklace and clasping it around her neck. She then grabbed her daughter and kissed her on the crown of her head.

The streets were alive with the symphony of city life—the distant hum of traffic mingled with the closer sounds of footsteps and snatches of conversation as people made their way to work or school. Marie and Amélie joined the flow of pedestrians, their steps in sync. As they walked, Marie reached out and took Amélie’s hand, to which the daughter smiled and allowed her mother to pull her in closely.

“My love,” Marie began, “today will be a day we never forget. Remember that.”

Amélie nodded before whistling a song — a song her mother used to sing to her when she was a little girl. Marie looked over at her girl, who was becoming a woman before her eyes.

Marie didn't lose sight of the poignancy of the moment as she observed Amélie’s youthful exuberance, her resilience in the face of everyday challenges, and her sudden bursts of mature insight. Marie cherished these moments, the fleeting instances where time seemed to stand still, and the essence of life was distilled into a shared glance or a simple touch.

As they neared the school, children in groups chattered excitedly, their voices rising in a crescent of youthful energy. Amélie squeezed her mother's hand before releasing it to join her friends, casting one last look back at Marie with a smile that promised more talks and shared secrets.

Marie watched her daughter disappear into the crowd, her heart swelling with a mixture of pride and bittersweet longing. Turning away, she headed towards the metro station, her steps slower now, allowing herself to absorb the vibrant city life around her.

Her thoughts drifted to the upcoming weekend at the park. Maybe they’d bring along some bread for the ducks and perhaps even a picnic basket with a few of Marie’s homemade treats. It would be simple, but these simple moments were their anchors in a world that often seemed too fast, too demanding.

As she entered the metro and found a seat by the window, Marie took out her phone and scrolled through it to find an old photograph of Amélie feeding ducks in the very same park they planned to visit. The years had flown by so quickly. She saved the photo for Amélie to see later — a little reminder of how much had changed and yet how some things, like their little traditions, remained steadfast.

II

Rose tapped her fingers against the steering wheel, the rhythmic clicking blending with the hum of idling engines and the distant chirping of crickets in the surrounding fields. Now low in the sky, the sun cast a warm golden hue over the verdant vineyards that stretched endlessly on either side of the road. A gentle breeze would carry the sweet scent of lavender and thyme every few moments through her open window, a fragrant reminder of the region’s natural bounty.

As she glanced around, she noticed other drivers showing signs of impatience: a man in a battered Peugeot honked intermittently, while a young couple in a convertible laughed and sipped on what looked like local rosé, seemingly unfazed by the standstill.

Rose's eyes flickered back to the rearview mirror, where she caught a glimpse of an older woman on a rusty bicycle, maneuvering her way through the edges of the traffic jam with a basket full of sunflowers and baguettes. It was an image so quintessentially rural French that Rose couldn't help but smile, momentarily forgetting the frustration of her halted journey.

As the golden hour turned deeper orange and began fading into twilight, traffic finally started inching forward. As it did, Rose’s mind turned to her earlier conversation with the mother of PRIME superstar FLAMBERGE. Julia provided her with as many answers to her questions as new questions that seemed to worm their way further into her mind. As soon as the line started to move again, it stopped, followed by a series of honks.

Rose strained her neck to look around the traffic, hoping for a glimpse of the delay. She saw nothing, though the faint sound of sirens pierced her ears. She resigned herself to leaning back in her seat and replaying Julia's conversation in her mind.

III

Perfunctory pleasantries parlayed into an awkward silence as Rose found herself sitting in Julia’s sitting room, which appeared to also double as a library. Julien took a moment to whisper a word to Rose about his father — though the tone of Julien’s voice suggested a deep tension, which carried over to the moment Julia and Rose were having.

Julien believed his mother could have answers Rose sought — though a particular uncertainty seemed to linger on that thought as Rose sat there. While Julia appeared to be a lovely woman, she didn’t come across as the type to be a scholar of thin places, but sometimes appearances seemed deceiving.

As Julia poured hot water into an antique tea cup and stirred the tea inside as the water settled in the cup, Rose glanced around the room and found countless books with French words on the spine. She thought about pulling her phone out of her pocket to pull up Google Lens to help her understand what she was looking at, but before the thought could progress further, Julia handed her the cup of tea.

“Thank you,” Rose responded before placing the porcelain cup on an ornate wooden table next to the pastel-colored chair she was sitting in. Her ears heard the pattering of feet — from Henri — and she wondered what he was doing. As Rose looked at Julia, who seemed lost in her own world, it was clear there wouldn’t be any conversations about Henri and Julien, not to a stranger.

“So,” Julia began, her French accent trying hard to fight through the English words. Julia smiled, searching for the words that felt foreign on her tongue. “Julien said about the thin places before left.” She continued to search for words, but Rose smiled at her.

“Yes,” Rose took over.

“Thin places is very… not talked about. I know very few Americans, you are first I have heard such talk from them.”

Rose looked over to her tea. “Same. I never heard of it before my dreams started to bring them up.”

“Your dreams?”

Rose nodded.

“You say it as if your dreams aren’t pulling from your own memories. You must have heard of thin places before then.” Julia grabbed her own cup of tea and took a small sip from it.

Meanwhile, Rose just sat there and looked at Julia. “I wish that was the case. I’d never heard of it, though.” She then began to tell Julia of her dreams, of the whimsical French village, of the woman who spoke French to her, of endroits minces, of how the dreams didn’t feel like dreams, but more than that. Dreams that were lived in. Every now and then, Julia would ask Rose to slow down and “maybe rephrase?” for clarity - she’s not as versed in conversational English as her son has become - but more than anything else, Julia was a terrific reader of young people’s faces, their emotions. This, more than anything, guided her understanding of the situation.

English was actually her third language; French, her second. Empathy her first.

As Rose finished, Julia sipped her tea a bit more and leaned back into her chair. Her eyes closed as if she was rummaging through her thoughts.

“When Julien was the young, he was always curious. Kept me on my toes. He asked me questions that tested the edges, because the boy believed his maman had every answer…Julien, he always asked for the answers. Sometimes I had to read a new story. Sometimes I told old fairy tales. Other times, they were based on lived experiences.”

Julia inched forward in her seat. “Have you ever been to a thin place?”

Rose shook her head.

“I have,” Julia smiled, pride shining. “These are places that call out to us, much more than how the we seek them. They look for the help from us, more than we are seeking the help from them. The places, they change you.” The last few words turned dark, as if Julia held back memories she didn’t wish to dwell upon.

“Why did you go? What was the purpose?”

A smile appeared on Julia’s face as she pointed towards the bookshelf behind her. “On there is a book, with the red spine and stars on there. Do you see that?”

Rose spun in her chair and found the book Julia described. She stood and walked to it, her finger grazing the smooth texture, and slowly pulled the book from its spot. As Rose did so, it felt like the book was rooted there, unwilling to budge until it felt Rose’s touch. It sprung loose and allowed her to take it from where it hadn’t moved in years.

As Rose held it, she felt different. She looked at the front cover, red and ornate but offering nothing else. Slowly, she peeled back the front cover and found foreign words to her handwritten in French.

“Love, those are my handwritten journals. My memories. Here, bring it to me and I will read one to you. I will pick the good one.” Rose looked over at Julia and brought the book to her. As Julia accepted the book, Rose returned to her seat while Julia began to glance through memories she hadn’t touched in years. Seconds passed, and Rose watched as Julia glanced through a few words, froze for a moment — reliving memories she’d buried — and then turned a page. After a few moments similar to this, she found the passage she was searching for.

“When I was a teenage girl, my mother liked to take me on drives. They were my favorite times. We’d find a small village and explore, eating local delicacies, or spending time in churches. One time, my mother went to a clothing shop and before I knew it, my feet were carrying me elsewhere. Before I knew it, I was in front of an unbelievable church that towered over everything. Except, I don’t remember seeing the church beforehand. It should have been very obvious, but no memory existed of seeing the church before I stood before it.”

Rose leaned forward.

“I walked into the church, it felt like my choice, but also felt like someone — or maybe something — was pulling me there. As I walked in, I realized there was no one else there. Only for a lone candle on an altar near the back. I went closer, curious of course — I was a young woman who didn’t know enough to know why this could be a dangerous thing. As I stood before the altar, a woman appeared. I don’t remember seeing this woman, but this woman was certainly there. She took me by the hand and asked what brought me here. I didn’t have an answer.”

Julia froze and then looked over at her cup of tea before taking another sip. Rose didn’t dare move.

“A smile appeared on the woman’s face. She already knew my answers to her question. She then told me she brought me here for one purpose and one purpose only. To tell me that one day, a woman would visit me and that I would know her because she would be a flower surrounded by thorns, searching for a way forward.”

Rose’s jaw slightly lowered, processing the words meeting her ears. Julia smiled.

“Well, I don’t think your name is Rose by coincidence, my dear. I think she was talking about you.”

IV

Marie strolled through the cobblestone streets of the picturesque village, her boots clicking softly with each step. The early morning mist still clung to the air, draping everything in a silken, ethereal veil. Antique shop windows, adorned with arrays of curios and trinkets, caught the first golden rays of sunlight, their glass panes winking like mischievous eyes at passersby.

Turning a corner, Marie found herself on the main street where quaint cafes and bistros lined the thoroughfare, their awnings striped in cheerful colors. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee drifted from one particular café, a charming little establishment with ivy creeping up its old stone walls. Intrigued, she pushed open the wooden door, which chimed a warm welcome.

Inside, the cafe was a cozy haven of comforting scents and sounds. The murmur of hushed conversations filled the air, blending with the clink of coffee cups and the soft hum of a vintage espresso machine. The barista greeted her with a friendly nod as she approached the counter, where an array of delectable pastries lay in wait under a gleaming glass case.

Her eyes danced over the choices: buttery croissants, delicate tarts topped with glistening fruit, plump muffins bursting with berries. Finally, she settled on a flaky pain au chocolat and ordered a large latte. With her treats in hand, Marie found a secluded table by the window overlooking the bustling street outside.

As she took her first sip of coffee—rich and perfectly balanced—she leaned back in her chair and let her mind wander to her upcoming weekend with her daughter, Amélie. A time with the ducks would be a nice callback to easier days, days when Amélie seemed full of laughter and life. Life, though, had stolen that from Amélie, and Marie had been unable to figure out how to bring it back for her.

The weekend would cure that; Marie was sure of it. If it didn’t cure it, it would at least put Amélie on the course. As she exited the cafe, lost in her thoughts, she turned the corner and began to cross the street before hearing a young man calling out after her.

V

“So, you know where I need to go, then?” Rose positioned her words as a semi-question, a semi-statement. Julia leaned forward in her chair and locked eyes with the young woman.

“I wish I did,” Julia responded, knowing her words would deflate Rose.

Rose looked around the room, wondering if the threads would appear, giving her the answers that she desperately was looking for. To be so close and yet so far seemed to constrict the muscles around her heart, so she moved to the window, looking at the beautiful garden that surrounded the house, and did everything she could to keep her emotions under control.

She sensed Julia moving behind her and closed her eyes, doing everything she could to stuff everything into a box she’d become accustomed to using over the past few years.

“Ròse,” the French accent hit her ears like a mother consoling her daughter. Except for Rose, she’d never really been consoled — not how she needed to be. As she turned and looked at Julia, the mother of a potential future PRIME Hall of Famer smiled at her and stretched out her hand for Rose to take. Rose took it, and Julia walked around her library before stopping in front of a particular shelf.

“While I may not have your answers, it does not mean we do not have the options.”

Rose looked at Julia inquisitively.

“You said the woman spoke in French. You said the village you saw felt like France. The encounter I had when I was younger was also, in France and the woman who spoke to me had my accent. If I had to guess, your family is from France. What is your mother’s surname?”

Rose steeled herself for the inevitable. “Maloof,” she offered. Julia paused for a moment and shook her head.

“Your mother’s maiden name, my dear.”

Rose closed her eyes, ruffling through the bits of information she’d gathered over the years until she landed upon the image of her mother’s birth certificate that his father kept just in case. She went line by line until she found the answer she sought.

“Durand.”

Julia smiled at Rose, rubbing her on the back gently before grabbing for an ornate red book on the shelf. She flipped through the pages momentarily before landing upon a page of handwritten notes.

“My mother gave this to me, her mother to her, and so on. You are French, my dear. Though you may not know it, you are. You have a place here in France that is for you and it is here.”

Julia’s finger rested upon a scribble of text. Rose looked at it, discovering where her mother’s family came from.

“You should go there,” Julia suggested. “There might be the next place for your questions.”

Like that, Julia closed the book and placed it back on the shelf. Rose stood there for a moment before she nodded and smiled.

“Thank you for your help,” Rose offered.

“Ah, well thank you for giving my son a reason to come and visit me today. I trust you will go visit the village?”

Rose shrugged. “I will try. I have to get to Spain as soon as possible. I’ve still got my day job.”

Julia chuckled. “Of course. I would just caution that you do not waste too much time. These things have a way of pushing on their own without the care for your own plans.”

“Understood,” Rose spoke as she slipped her hands into her front pants pockets.

“Now, Julien and you. An item of sorts?”

Rose’s laugh came through without warning. “No, no. I’m not even thinking about that, and I’m sure Julien doesn’t see me that way. He sees me as competition at the very most.”

“Ah,” Julia offered. “Competition, but then why bring you here if he views you as such? You don’t give competition the answers they’re seeking? You leave the questions there hoping they drive them mad.”

Rose nodded slowly. “Well, maybe not competition. He’s on a different level.”

“When he started, he was the same as you. He didn’t come out at such a level.”

“Fair, fair,” Rose responded.

“Now, come help me get ready for lunch. Julien will be back soon and we shall eat. It will be delicious.”

Rose followed after Julia, doing everything she could to keep her thoughts focused on the moment and not on the unknown that beckoned her from afar.

VI

Rolande gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles as his rusted, faded blue van careened through the narrow cobblestone streets of the quaint village. His eyes stared straight ahead, glassy and unfocused, as if in a trance. The van's engine roared, disturbing the tranquil morning. As the vehicle barreled past, a flock of sparrows scattered in a flurry of beating wings.

Rolande's mind felt foggy, disconnected from his body. It was as if some unseen force had seized control of his limbs, guiding the van onward with reckless purpose. He wanted to slam on the brakes, to cry out, but he remained frozen, a helpless passenger in his own body.

Up ahead, the traffic light flashed red. A young woman in a lemon-yellow sundress stepped into the crosswalk, her auburn curls bouncing with each step. A necklace bounced off her clavicle as she bounced across the street. Rolande tried to turn the wheel, to swerve out of the way, but his arms wouldn't obey. The woman glanced up, her green eyes widening in terror as the van bore down on her.

“Look out!” the cry from the young man came, but it was too late.

Metal crunched against bone with a sickening thud. The woman's body crumpled, the flowers scattering across the blood-slicked pavement. Rolande felt a scream building in his throat, but it emerged only as a strangled gasp.

The van swerved sharply to the left, tires screeching against the cobblestones. It careened into a stone wall with a deafening crash, metal crumpling like paper. Steam hissed from the ruptured radiator as the engine sputtered and died.

Rolande hung limply in his seatbelt, blood trickling from a gash on his forehead. His eyes fluttered open, the fog in his mind dissipating like mist under the morning sun. Panic seized him as the horrifying realization of what had transpired crashed over him like a tidal wave.

He fumbled with the seatbelt with trembling hands, finally freeing himself from its confines. He stumbled out of the van, legs threatening to give out beneath him. The acrid scent of burnt rubber and gasoline assaulted his nostrils, churning his stomach.

In the distance, he could hear the sirens wail, growing louder with each passing second. A crowd had begun to gather around the motionless form of the woman, their faces etched with shock and horror.

Rolande's heart hammered against his ribcage as he staggered forward, his vision blurring with unshed tears. He dropped to his knees beside the woman, her once vibrant sundress stained crimson. Her green eyes stared blankly at the sky, devoid of life.

"I'm sorry," Rolande choked out, his voice barely a whisper. "I'm so sorry."

His trembling fingers brushed against her auburn curls, now matted with blood. The weight of his actions crushed down upon him, threatening to suffocate him.

The sirens grew deafening as police cars and an ambulance screeched to a halt nearby. Rolande barely registered their presence, his eyes fixed on the lifeless woman before him. Tears streamed down his face, mingling with the blood from his injury.

As Rolande knelt beside the lifeless woman, a searing pain suddenly exploded in his chest. It felt as if an invisible hand had reached into his ribcage and squeezed his heart with an iron grip. The world around him blurred the sirens and shouts fading into a distant echo as the pain consumed his every sense.

He clutched at his chest, his fingers clawing desperately at the fabric of his shirt. Each breath became a labored gasp, the air seeming to turn to lead in his lungs. Sweat beaded on his forehead, mingling with the blood from his gash, as a wave of nausea washed over him.

All of it had led to this. His final image was of the woman with the heart pendant lying still on her chest.

VII

Rose drummed her fingers impatiently on the steering wheel as the line of cars ahead of her began moving in the wrong direction. An officer in a bright yellow vest waved the traffic to the right, detouring vehicles around the accident scene and blocking the road ahead.

"No, no, no," Rose muttered under her breath. "I need to go straight. I'm already running late."

Rose sighed in exasperation as she watched the long line of cars ahead of her slowly snake off the main road, following the orange detour signs hastily set up by the local police. She craned her neck, trying to get a glimpse of the accident that was causing this unplanned diversion, but all she could make out were the silhouettes of the ambulance and fire truck blocking the road.

Rose reached for her phone to check the map, hoping to find an alternate route to the village. Questions needed to be answered, and she wasn’t sure she could wait another day to get them. Of course, there was no signal on this remote stretch of road.

With a frustrated groan, Rose tossed her phone onto the passenger seat. She had no choice but to follow the detour and hope it wouldn't add too much time to her journey. As she slowly inched forward, the car's engine sputtered and coughed, causing Rose's heart to skip a beat. "Not now," she pleaded, gently coaxing the accelerator. "Just a little further."

The car lurched forward, and Rose breathed a sigh of relief as she merged into the line of vehicles on the narrow detour road. The sun began to disappear, casting long shadows across the unfamiliar landscape. Rose squinted, trying to make out any landmarks that might help her navigate this unexpected route.

As she drove through another small village, her thoughts were interrupted by a sudden jolt as her car hit a pothole, sending a shudder through the vehicle. She immediately pulled off to the right and parked in front of a small bakery. As the cars behind her continued, she stepped out and examined the vehicle but thankfully found no damage. The tires seemed to be intact. With her hands on her hip, Rose sighed and looked around at the quaint French village.

Rose stood there, transfixed by the sight of the charming village square. The cobblestone streets were lined with colorful houses, their shutters painted in vibrant blue, green, and red hues. Flower boxes overflowing with vibrant blooms adorned the windows, and the air was filled with the delicate scent of lavender and freshly baked bread.

As she took in the surroundings, a sense of déjà vu washed over her. The village felt strangely familiar as if she had walked through these streets before. Rose closed her eyes, trying to recall where she had seen this place. Suddenly, it hit her—this village was the spitting image of the one that had haunted her dreams for months.

In those dreams, Rose wandered through narrow alleys, past quaint shops and cafes, until she reached a magnificent church at the heart of the village. The church had a tall, ornate spire that seemed to touch the sky, and its stained-glass windows glowed with an otherworldly light.

Intrigued by this uncanny resemblance, Rose started to explore the village on foot. She meandered through the winding streets, taking in the sights and sounds of daily life. Children played in the small parks, their laughter echoing through the air. Elderly couples sat on benches, engaged in lively conversations and enjoying the warm afternoon sun.

As she turned a corner, Rose froze in her tracks. At the end of the street stood the very church of her dreams. Its towering spire and intricate stonework were unmistakable. Rose's heart raced as she approached the entrance, her hand trembling as she reached for the heavy wooden door.

The door creaked open, revealing a dimly lit interior. Rose stepped inside, her footsteps echoing on the ancient stone floor. The air was thick with the scent of incense and the faint whisper of prayers—colorful light filtered through the stained-glass windows, casting a kaleidoscope of hues across the pews.

Rose's eyes gradually adjusted to the room's dim lighting, and she noticed a person sitting in the front row. Her breath caught in her throat as she froze in place. Thoughts raced through her mind as she cautiously moved towards the figure. As she approached, the figure stood up and turned to face her. The hood covering their face fell back, revealing Rose's mother - causing her jaw to drop in surprise.

"Mom," she whispered in disbelief.