The late afternoon sun filtered softly through the frosted windows of the bistro, casting long, golden streaks across the wooden floor. The muted hum of the city outside seemed far away, its clamor hushed by the thick stone walls.

In the far corner of the room, near a window that overlooked the cobbled street, sat a Frenchwoman. A book rested in her left hand, its worn spine hinting at repeated readings. Her other hand held a cigarette, the ash precariously close to falling, a wisp of smoke curling lazily towards the ceiling. She exhaled softly, the cloud dissipating as quickly as it formed, her focus entirely absorbed in the words before her.

For a moment, she was untouched by the world around her, lost in the rhythm of her reading. But then, the faintest prickle of awareness disturbed her solitude. Lifting her gaze, her eyes drifted to the window, where they landed on a familiar figure staring unabashedly at her. Her lips tightened briefly in recognition, though her expression remained inscrutable. A long sigh escaped her as the figure, upon recognition, moved purposefully toward the bistro’s entrance.

Her fingers tapped the edge of the book thoughtfully as she watched them approach, the cigarette now forgotten. This was meant to be a quiet escape — a stolen afternoon of literature and nicotine, maybe followed by a strong cup of coffee. She hoped, perhaps in vain, that the interruption wouldn’t sour the tranquility she had found here.