Chapter 3 — Landing in Paris

Amelia

The plane’s wheels kissed the runway with a muted screech, jolting Amelia from the half-sleep she’d drifted into during the final stretch of the flight. The cabin lights brightened, casting an artificial glow over the passengers, who were already shifting in their seats, gathering belongings, and murmuring in anticipation of disembarking. Amelia blinked, her neck stiff from leaning awkwardly against the window, and turned slightly to glance at Ethan. He sat beside her, his fingers tapping an uneven rhythm against the armrest, his eyes fixed resolutely ahead, a tension in his jaw that hadn’t eased since takeoff.

For a moment, she thought of speaking. The silence between them had grown heavy, a weight as palpable as the strap of her leather messenger bag pressing against her lap. The words hovered on the edge of her mind, unspoken. What could she say? The last time they’d tried, their conversation had fizzled into awkward small talk, each sentence a fragile thread that unraveled as quickly as it formed. She adjusted her bag and turned her gaze to the horizon. Paris. A word that carried both triumph and regret, its syllables heavy with memories she wasn’t ready to confront.

Above them, the flight attendant’s voice crackled over the intercom, instructing passengers to remain seated until the plane reached the gate. Amelia pulled her phone from her bag, her thumb hovering over an unopened email from her editor. The subject line—*Paris Feature—Final Notes*—stared back at her, the weight of its implications tightening her chest. She hesitated, her breath catching in her throat as her fingers brushed the worn leather cover of her journal tucked safely in her bag. Not yet.

“Funny how Paris always feels like a welcome and a goodbye,” Ethan said suddenly, his voice low and deliberate, cutting through the hum of the cabin.

Amelia turned, startled by the unexpected softness in his tone. He wasn’t looking at her but out the window, his profile outlined against the gray clouds that hung low over the tarmac. Something about the way he said it—a quiet mix of wistfulness and resignation—made her chest tighten.

“It’s not a welcome back,” she replied evenly, though her voice faltered at the edges. “I’m here for work, not... nostalgia.”

He smirked faintly, his fingers stilling on the armrest. “Right. Of course. All business.”

There was a faint irony in his tone, subtle but unmistakable, and it prickled at her. Before she could respond, the cabin erupted into motion as passengers stood, reaching for overhead compartments and jostling into the aisle. The moment dissolved, leaving behind an uneasy tension that clung to the air between them. Amelia exhaled, tightening her grip on her bag as they joined the slow procession toward the exit.

By the time they reached baggage claim, the hum of the airport buzzed around them, a mix of announcements echoing over the intercom and the rhythmic clatter of luggage wheels on polished floors. Amelia spotted her suitcase almost immediately—a sleek, charcoal-gray carry-on chosen for its practicality. She reached for it, her fingers brushing the handle, when a voice interrupted her.

“Amelia Hartfield?”

Turning, she found herself face-to-face with a petite woman wearing oversized glasses and a bright yellow scarf that stood out like a beacon amid the muted tones of the airport. Her short black hair curled playfully around her ears, and she held a Polaroid camera in one hand, its strap dangling from her wrist.

“Yes?” Amelia replied cautiously, her fingers tightening slightly around the suitcase handle.

“Sarah Kim,” the woman said, extending her free hand with a grin that could’ve lit up the entire baggage carousel. “We’re seatmates on the return flight. I recognized you from your byline—huge fan of your work. I’m a travel blogger, so I guess you could say we’re in the same orbit.”

Amelia blinked, momentarily thrown by the woman’s effusive energy. The handshake was firm, almost eager, and Amelia found herself returning the gesture out of reflex, though her professional mask slipped into place.

“Nice to meet you,” she said, her tone measured but polite. She wasn’t accustomed to being recognized outside her professional circles, and the familiarity caught her off guard.

“I’m here for a piece on hidden gems in Paris,” Sarah continued, her words coming in a rapid, cheerful stream. She gestured animatedly with the camera. “I’ve been here a couple of times, but there’s always something new to discover, you know? What about you—work or pleasure?”

“Work,” Amelia said curtly, though a faint smile tugged at the corner of her lips. Sarah’s unabashed enthusiasm was disarming, even if it clashed with her own reserved demeanor.

“Figures,” Sarah replied, nodding knowingly. “You have that ‘serious journalist on a mission’ vibe. Very mysterious.”

Amelia almost laughed but caught herself, softening the chuckle into a faint smile instead. “I’m not sure how mysterious I am, but yes, it’s an assignment. A feature on expatriates and their stories.”

“Fascinating,” Sarah said, her eyes lighting up. “Maybe our paths will cross while we’re here. If you ever need a partner in crime—or just someone to share a drink with—look me up.”

Before Amelia could respond, Sarah raised her Polaroid camera, snapping a quick photo. The flash caught Amelia off guard, making her blink as the camera whirred softly.

“For the memories,” Sarah said with a playful wink, tucking the developing photo into her jacket pocket. “Catch you around, Amelia.”

And just like that, she disappeared into the crowd, leaving Amelia standing by the carousel with a bemused expression. She shook her head, gripping the handle of her suitcase and wheeling it toward the exit. There was something about Sarah’s uncontainable energy that lingered, a spark of lightness in an otherwise weighty moment.

Stepping into the arrivals hall, the air hit her—a mixture of exhaust fumes and the faint, lingering scent of rain. The overcast sky above was a soft, muted gray, the kind of light that seemed uniquely Parisian, diffused and tinged with melancholy. It cast everything in a cinematic glow, as though the city itself were a memory brought to life.

Amelia paused, her gaze sweeping over the bustling taxi queue and the sea of travelers. Paris stretched before her, its beauty and its ghosts intertwined, beckoning her forward. The city had always demanded something of her—a reckoning, a surrender—and this time would be no different. She adjusted the strap of her bag, the faintest flutter of unease flickering in her chest.

Behind her, Ethan emerged from the terminal, his own suitcase in tow. He hesitated, his eyes scanning the crowd until they landed on her. His hand tightened briefly on the handle of his suitcase, his lips parting as if to call out. But then he stopped. His gaze dropped to the faint glint of silver at her neck—the Necklace of the Seine, resting just above her collarbone. A flicker of emotion passed over his face, unreadable yet heavy with meaning.

Amelia caught the movement out of the corner of her eye but didn’t turn, pretending not to notice. Instead, she squared her shoulders and strode forward, her heels clicking against the pavement with determined precision. Whatever pull Paris had on her, she wasn’t ready to let Ethan—or her own tangled emotions—define it. Not yet.