May 1962. A small town on the north coast of France.

Dewy grass and rolling hillsides, fresh summer skies; Armin had never seen the country before, but he found it beautiful. During the drive from the airport, Armin had anticipated working though a sizeable portion of the French dictionary he had picked up while still in America, but he had been so entranced by the landscape that his book remained in his lap the whole time, a bookmark lying idly mid-way through the E section.

This was his first time in France, and had never anticipated that he would go until his mother suggested the idea.

It had been matters of convenience that landed Armin in the situation he was in, rather than one of choice. When his parents had told Armin that they were leaving Seattle for the snowy, desolate landscape of Alaska, they had presented him with three options - stay in Seattle and get a job, go with them, or fly across the world to stay with his grandfather in France. For a long time, Armin had deliberated, and almost chose the first option; though he soon dismissed it, for he wasn't the type for a city job, and despite turning eighteen after the coming summer, he didn't quite feel ready for total independence. The second had barely crossed his mind as viable. He wanted to be a writer - there was no way he was going to shut himself off in the tundra with only his parents for company.

So it was the third option that Armin was left with, and he chose it, despite the anxiety it brought. He had never met his grandfather - the man was a mystery. Everything Armin knew about him came from a dusty photograph pulled from the loft and tales his mother had told him. According to her he had been a traveller, hopping from country to country. The idea of that fascinated Armin, and he was excited to ask the man questions about his adventures in foreign continents.

The second matter of convenience was his grandfather's and was the reason why his mother had suggested the idea of going in the first place. The man was old, sick, and too stubborn to move from his house. Armin would act as his nurse for the summer.

The taxi passed a farm and soon the town came into view. Armin squinted at a sign as it passed. Bienvenue au Saint Aubin Sur Mer. Watching the houses as they sped by, Armin noticed how every single one was different in some way. A post office, a pharmacy, a small church - it was the typical picture-book town, and it was beautiful.

Much to his dismay, Armin hadn't caught a glimpse of the ocean since he had flown over it, but he was sure that soon it would come into view. After all, his mother had told him that her father's house faced the sea, with the beach barely a minute away.

And he was right - just seconds later, the taxi driver turned a corner and it came fully into view, sparkling and blue. It was so unlike the polluted water surrounding Seattle. His face was almost pressed against the glass, and after a swift glare from the taxi driver Armin pulled away and contented himself with staring at the ocean from a little further away. The taxi turned another corner so they were driving parallel to the sea, and Armin looked out at the beach huts and sunbathers, his heart pounding with excitement. There was nothing he loved more than lying out on the beach with a good book, and knowing that he would be able to in just a few hours excited him beyond belief.

The taxi then pulled into the driveway of his new home. Armin studied it. It was large - larger than the photographs had made it out to be. At the end of a twisting path through the garden, the front door stood stoically, wide and a deep oak brown. It was adorned with a brass knocker. Ivy crawled up the brick walls, and flowers lay in their beds under the windows, bright but slightly wilting. Milk bottles sat in the shade of a flower pot on the doorstep.

"Thank you," Armin's said to the taxi driver, passing him the franks he was due, his French nervous and wobbly. The driver passed him his luggage from the front seat, and Armin stepped out into the French sunshine.

A new home. He hoped there would be lots of books, maybe a piano; he dabbled in music. He wondered if his grandfather would like him. It seemed odd to Armin that he would be meeting and beginning a relationship with the man so late in his life - he could have known him forever, but the man was a total stranger.

The door creaked open and there his grandfather stood. He was old, with wrinkles lining his face like rivers on an old map, and a cloud of white hair sat on his head. He was stooped over, relying on a walking stick to keep him from folding in on himself. His clothes were tattered and worn, but his eyes were bright and focused quickly on Armin. He smiled and began walking over to him, his stick making a loud tapping sound on the path.

"You must be Armin," he said, his hand shaking violently. "The last time we met, you could barely talk." For a man so frail, his eyes were staring at Armin with an unusual intensity. He didn't have a French accent, but Armin knew that he could speak the language fluently.

Armin looked back quickly at the taxi, which was pulling away. Part of him wished he could jump straight back in and fly back to America, but that was impossible. He was here now, and he was here for good.

Armin almost couldn't meet the man's gaze. "I am," he said. "It's nice to meet you." Armin was aware of how awkwardly formal he sounded and his stiff posture.

Suddenly, the door flew open and out bound a huge sheepdog, panting and barking. It ran straight to Armin and jumped up at him, trying to lick his cheek. Its paws reached Armin's chest - it was so large that it nearly knocked him back onto the ground. Armin was completely unsure of what to do, so he froze, looking frightened.

"Cerise!" Said Armin's grandfather, laughing. "Leave the poor boy alone."

The dog lumbered away from Armin and to the old man, slobbering slightly onto the grass. She had a shaggy black and white coat of fur, which was matted in places.

"Sorry about that," said the man, grinning. "She has a tendency to be a little over enthusiastic when meeting new people."

"Oh, er, it's fine," Armin said. "Do you want to go on in, sit down, or anything?"

The man laughed. "No, no, I'm perfectly fine out here. If I'm honest, I may have exaggerated about my condition a little to your dear mother."

"Really?" Armin said. "But she said you were being stubborn about getting treatment."

"Of course stubborn would be the word she'd use to describe me." He laughed again. "But no, if I'm honest with you, I only told her that so she'd offer to send you down to me."

Armin looked at him. He was strange - perhaps the strangest old man Armin had ever seen - but he seemed to know it.

"Don't look at me with that expression," said the old man, "I couldn't exactly have you dragged up to Alaska now, could I?"

"It did sound like a pretty miserable offer."

"Exactly!" The old man exclaimed. "Come on in, now, and I'll show you everything, and we can sit down and have something to eat."

Armin followed him inside, Cerise walking behind him.

It was the most cluttered house Armin had ever seen.

The first thing he noticed were the books - they were everywhere. Stacked on windowsills, piled on a stained coffee table in the living room, overflowing from numerous bookshelves. Books on travel, on languages; fiction books, children's books, books so worn that the covers hung from them. There were books in foreign languages, books as slim as a pencil and books as thick as a loaf of bread.

Then, the walls - or more specifically, what covered them - picture frames. The pictures were everywhere and depicted the vastest and varied landscapes Armin had ever seen. There were maps too, maps of places Armin didn't even recognise, and maps so old that they weren't even accurate.

"This is amazing…" Armin breathed.

"From what your mother's told me about you, I'd gathered that you'd like it. Although it does get a bit cramped."

"No, but really… this is all yours?"

"Every single thing you see here is something I collected on my travels," the man said proudly. "But as you can see, I'm a bit too old for that now." He sat down slowly on a chair, sighing as he did so.

"Still, it's amazing."

"Thank you. You wouldn't turn the radio on for me, would you?"

"Yeah, of course," Armin said, walking over to the little box and flicking it on.

Music filled the room, and Armin barely understood a word of it. He listened as carefully as he could until his grandfather laughed again.

"I take it your French is pretty rusty," he said, chuckling.

"Rusty? I barely know a word," Armin said, and his worry was clear on his face.

"Don't worry about it. The boys down at the farm can speak English well, I've heard them doing it. You'll be alright, and from what your mother's said, you're a quick learner."

"I hope so," Armin said.

"You take after your mother, worrywart. Go into the kitchen and grab some food if you want to. What's mine is yours now."

"Thanks!" Armin said, surprised by how laid-back the man was, and ignoring the use of the word 'worrywart'. He had expected him to be, somehow, more… strict?

Despite this, Armin still hadn't worked up the courage to initiate a conversation about the third matter of convenience - his own.

Armin had always wanted to be a writer. He did well at it in school - or so his teachers said - and he enjoyed it when he had the inspiration.

That was the problem - inspiration.

It came fleetingly, like a shy animal venturing from its home, and it never lasted long, leaving Armin with unfinished story after unfinished story. Most of the time, he didn't get past the first few pages before giving up. And so, he concluded, that a change of pace would do him good. Especially if that change of pace was going to live with a man with an unlimited number of stories to tell.

The problem he faced now was that he was too shy to ask for any of them. But this didn't worry him too much. He was sure he'd get there eventually.

The kitchen was just as cluttered as the sitting room and hallway. Due to the overstocked spice rack and numerous cookbooks, Armin suspected that his grandfather cooked everything himself, just like his mother did. The fridge held plenty of foods Armin didn't recognise, so he settled with a glass of lemonade - at least, he thought it was lemonade. He couldn't quite tell from the label, but it smelled like lemons, so he took a calculated risk.

He was right, and oddly proud of it.

When Armin walked back into the sitting room, he was surprised to find his grandfather asleep in the chair, Cerise lying at his feet.

What was he supposed to do now? He hadn't even been there for ten minutes and he'd already been left to his own devices.

Armin deliberated for five minutes on whether he should go and try to find his room, and eventually decided to just go and do it. The stairs were creaky, and Armin was worried he would wake his grandfather, but when he reached the landing, he could still hear the man's snores over the radio. Armin hoped that he didn't snore like that all the time.

There were three doors on the second floor. One, Armin presumed, was the bathroom, and the other two belonged to the bedrooms. Armin opened the door on the left and was met with what felt like the largest room in the house. It probably wasn't the biggest room at all- it was just the most spacious, due to the fact that there wasn't stuff everywhere. For this reason, Armin thought it safe to assume that he had gotten right the first time, and the room was his. He set down his luggage at the end of the bed.

Halfway through unclasping his bag, Armin noticed the view from the window.

It was stunning. The sky was a perfect, bright blue - a stark contrast to Seattle's grey, overcast clouds. It seemed to merge into the ocean on the horizon, the sparkling, bright ocean, filled with happy swimmers. Families walked down the street, chatting absent-mindedly. A man sold ice cream on the corner, and on the other end of the street stood a cart where people bought strawberries by the dozen.

It was happy, and peaceful, and bright. Definitely something Armin could get used to.

Armin kept glancing out at the view from his window as he packed away the clothes he had brought. His books, too, soon lined the shelf above his bed in perfect alphabetical order. He put the French dictionary and one other Teach Yourself French book onto his bedside table, and then went back downstairs, being careful to avoid the creaky parts of the stairs.

Cerise was sat waiting for him at the bottom when he got there. She looked at him excitedly and lumbered to the door, looking from it to Armin as if to say come on, let me out.

Armin wasn't sure if he should, but from the way the dog was acting, this was what she normally did when she wanted to go outside, so he opened the door to let her out.

And there was a boy standing at the end of the garden, just opening the gate. He was far taller than Armin - Armin could see that, even from a distance, and they looked about the same ages. In his hand, the boy carried two milk bottles.

"Qui es-tu?" He said, and Armin stared at him dumbfoundedly. What did that mean? Did it begin with what - no, who?

Armin thought about saying the only French he knew - Je ne parle pas Francais - but he had found that his mouth had gone completely dry.

"Uh, non," was all Armin managed to say, and then -

"Oh, you're English?" The boy said. His French accent was heavy, but his English was perfect.

"Yeah," Armin said quickly. "Well, no. American." Being confronted by an actual real-life French person wasn't something Armin had anticipated this early on in his trip, even if he could speak English.

"Ah. Well, bienvenue," he said, walking up the path. "Why are you in Mr Arlert's house?"

Armin looked at him blankly.

"That means welcome. Is your French really that bad?"

Armin felt a slow blush on his cheeks. That was pretty humiliating.

"He's my grandfather." Armin ignored what the boy had said.

"You're Mr. Arlert's grandson?" The boy squinted at him. "I guess I can see it. Well, my name is Jean."

"John?"

"Jean."

"Oh, okay. Sorry."

"It's fine. Common mistake with you foreigners." Jean grinned. Armin looked at him. He was skinny, but pretty muscular - far more than Armin could ever hope to be. He had a face that seemed to rest in a smirk, and eyes that that narrowed when he talked.

Jean outstretched his hand and Armin shook it nervously.

"What's the matter, you don't shake hands in America?" He laughed.

Armin's cheeks grew hotter. "Of course we do!"

"So you're from America? I thought Mr. Arlert was English?" Jean carried on.

"He is. My parents moved away when I was a baby."

"Right. Well, what's your name?"

"Armin."

"Well, Armin, can I get past?"

Remembering the bottles in Jean's hand, Armin stepped aside.

"I accidentally dropped off the wrong milk this morning," the boy explained. "Farm's understaffed, so things get mixed up a lot. Anyway, see you later, American guy," he said, stepping around Armin and leaving through the front gate.

Armin stood there for several moments, trying to get his heart to stop pounding with the anxiety that came with meeting new people (especially people a little intense).

He turned around to see his grandfather coming out of the sitting room, yawning.

"Was that Jean?" The man asked.

"Yeah," Armin said. "He was re-delivering the milk. Said he brought the wrong one earlier."

"Typical of him." The old man said. "Pass it to me, would you?"

Armin gave it to him and the man placed it carefully in the fridge. Back in the sitting room, Armin told him how he'd already been to his room, and how much he enjoyed the view. They talked for a little while and listened to the radio, and then Armin retreated to his room while his grandfather cooked.

They ate a couple hours later, and Armin told his grandfather more about his parents, how he had grown up. The man was interested in what he had to say - something his parents hadn't exactly been, and all in all, Armin so far was thoroughly surprised by everything about his situation.

When the sun set, Cerise made good company on the sofa, and when his grandfather fell asleep, Armin woke and guided him to his bedroom before returning to his own for the night. For hours he poured over his French books, and when dawn broke, Armin was still cross-legged in bed, book in hand, and asleep, his head lolling forward onto his chest.

It was going to be an interesting trip.