Ever since he died, she hasn't had the courage to go to that house. Lost in the middle of Provence, an ancient thing passed down in her family for generations. It's a beautiful house, made of old pink stones, with few windows to keep the fresh air in, and a roof of red tiles. A garden of wild flowers and fruit trees.
Always felt like a fairytale home, especially when she was a young girl and her father drove them there to spend the summer, after a school year in Paris in their tiny flat.
She would spend her days running through the vines, drunk on the open air, the smell of lavender and pine.
The hills in the distance. The olive trees with their green grey leaves, the sun hot on her shoulders, the wind, strong and warm tangling her hair. The river that flowed down their property, lazy and quiet.
Her father would play, as well, and she was called home by the echo of the melody on the wind.
It was their refuge, two months during which she ran and sang and just was, free to be and live just as much as she wanted. They would play in the markets, in the small villages around their home, each more pittoresque than the other, on silent hills, nestled around forests and rock pits.
It was as if time had no empire on these stones, life going on as slow as it had been nearly a century before. The roads were still small and sinuous, passing through thousands of vine lands and around the hills. The cicadas incessant buzzing drowning every other sound, and the wind, moving in the trees.
It was that life she remembered, with tears in her eyes, as she made her way down from the capital. As she left the highway and took the small roads to reach their house, feeling the sun's hot gaze on her hair, as unblinking as it had been five years ago. The last time she had made the journey, with her father.
Now she was alone, and she felt him by her side, could remember the giddy excitation she'd felt every time she took that road, the promise of two months of lazy walks in the paths around their house. The smell of the barbecues they made, how they would stare at night at the sky, how he would name every star they could see.
It felt like a lifetime ago, that giddiness and freedom.
After a day on the road, she reached the small path leading to their house. Her house, now. Everything belonged to her alone, now.
She couldn't remember her mother, dead of cancer while she was still an infant. Her papa had cared for her, been her only anchor in that whole wide world, her stone house in the midst of a violent thunderstorm.
Now that he was gone, she was drifting, not knowing her way.
Still, she'd gone on with their shared dream: of becoming part of the Conservatoire in Paris, in singing. She had the voice of an angel, her papa always said, and she had attempted the concours, not once, but twice.
After this failure, she'd quit. Left Paris on a snap, taken the first road, back to where she'd started. Her dream had been everything to her, the only thing keeping her sane after her papa had left her.
And now…
Now…
What would she become?
What would she do?
Perhaps the answer was hidden in that old house, where her dearest memories still lay.
Her fingers were shaking when she opened the door. Inside, nothing had moved. The air felt stale, and she could see the small dress she'd forgotten on the top of a shelf, and how she'd whined when they'd left and she found it missing.
"You won't need it," her father had said. "We'll get you another one for next spring, and you'll get it when we come back."
He had never come back.
She threw open the windows, letting light and wind enter what felt like both a tomb and a sanctuary. A place untouched by the sadness she'd felt.
On the mantel of the fireplace were her most cherished photographs: the three of them, mother, father, and baby Christine, here, for her first summer. She was a year old, and already had the first wisps of golden hair, and "the bluest eyes he'd ever seen", her papa had told her.
She looked like her mother now, all Swedish, with perhaps a bit more flesh than she'd had, generous curves that had never bothered her.
Strong arms and thighs from running up and down the hills, from helping her papa whenever there was work to do to renovate that old thing they called a house.
In his eyes, she'd always felt beautiful.
Now all she could remember were the lines of thin girls waiting for their turns during the rehearsals she'd attended to prepare herself. They wouldn't stare, of course, but that was what perhaps hurt the most.
She was invisible.
A shadow, alone and cold, in a city as grey and cold as she felt.
Now, with the sun hot and vibrant over the green hills, and the colors of a thousand flowers, she would feel alive again.
She wasn't very sure where to begin, though.
Her parents'room, next. The bed, cold, and uninviting. The wardrobe, a huge wooden thing, sculpted when her papa would have a moment, one panel at a time.
She quickly left it alone, blocking the memories that threatened her.
Her room hadn't changed, of course. There was still her teddy bear from her childhood, one she'd won at a nearby fair. The years and her constant attention had not been kind to it. He was missing an ear, and one of its eyes was nearly blind. Part of his face was half-chewed, from when a stray dog had found it in her errands and she'd screamed it away. Her papa had done his best to mend it, but he would always bear the marks of the encounter.
Still, he was fluffy and smelled nice and comforting when she hugged it, letting that small token calm her heart.
Erik, she'd called it. From the fairy tale her father had always told her, in the book from her mother's childhood. A mermaid's prince, mysterious and gifted, one she'd always loved.
"He will bring you luck", her papa had said.
He had, over the years, as she grew into her talent, hoping to make a career out of that, as her papa had done. But it seemed now all the luck had run out, and she drew her gaze away from his warm but misshaped eyes, to sink into her bed.
She was weary and dirty from the road, with just some food and drinks waiting for her in her car, and she fell asleep.
When she woke up, it was night. The cicadas had quieted, the moon had risen, and there were no other lights than the stars, white points in a sea of impenetrable darkness. The wind was quiet in the trees, and it felt still warm.
She felt hungry, and went to her car to retrieve a few things to spend the night. She showered, and climbed onto the roof to watch the night sky, a sandwich in hand.
She could see her shadow, so bright was the moon. Her cheeks still felt wet and aching, from her earlier tears. Had it been a mistake, coming here? After all, if Paris had reminded her of her father, every single day, how could this place fail to do it, when every stone bore his mark? When they had put their love in each corner, every strike of paint on the walls?
The tears came back, when she had sworn a few months ago they never could, so much had she cried and cried. A great, deep well, never to end, never to dry, fueling the pain in her heart.
Numb. Despite the warmth, the silver glow of the moon, she felt cold and numb.
And during those times, there was only one thing that could ever hope to soothe her heart if only for a moment.
She closed her eyes, and started to sing. Her voice echoed on the surrounding hills, the sound pure and clear, despite the tears in her voice, the shaking at times, and she let it ring, over and over, the same verses never feeling quiet enough, never meaningful enough.
I miss you.
I love you.
How can I ever say goodbye?
Feeling like a waste of space, feeling like she would never be enough, never be good enough to fulfill their dreams. Her dreams, the fire in her heart, the star she'd kept burning, low and so vulnerable.
When she finished, her voice hoarse and tired, she didn't move. The moon had moved, crossed the sky over to the west, and the stars had dimmed ever so slightly.
She could feel the tremors of dawn, the barely there brightening in the eastern sky.
Now her body felt numb, but some of the ache had quieted. Her head felt clearer than it had been when she'd begun. Not nearly enough to be sane, but it would have to suffice.
For now.