Chapter 2: Awakening
2422words
Then... warmth. Gentle on my face.
My eyelids flutter open to golden sunlight streaming through tall windows, casting long rectangles across worn wooden floorboards. The light catches dust motes dancing in the air, turning them into tiny stars that swirl with each breath I take.
This isn't a hospital room.
I blink, disoriented. My body feels wrong—lighter somehow, as if gravity has loosened its hold. The ceiling above me is unfamiliar: ornate crown molding, a small crack running like a river delta across aged plaster. A ceiling fan turns lazily, its wooden blades creating a hypnotic rhythm.
Where am I?
I try to sit up, and my muscles respond with surprising ease—no searing pain, no resistance. Just a different kind of soreness, like I've been hunched over for hours. My hands fly to my chest, expecting bandages, bruises, something to mark the crash. Nothing. Just smooth skin beneath a thin cotton tank top I don't recognize.
"What the hell?" I whisper, my voice sounding strange in my ears—higher, younger.
The room comes into focus around me. It's small but charming, with high ceilings and large windows. A wrought-iron bed with rumpled sheets. A weathered armoire with one door slightly ajar. Clothes spilling from an overstuffed suitcase. Canvases stacked against the wall.
Canvases?
My heart stutters as I swing my legs over the side of the bed. My legs—slimmer than I remember, unmarked by the varicose veins that had begun to appear in my mid-thirties. I stand, wobbling slightly, and catch my reflection in a mirror hanging on the wall.
The face that stares back isn't the thirty-five-year-old woman who drove off a cliff. It's me—but a version of me I haven't seen in fifteen years. Rounder cheeks. Brighter eyes. Hair falling in messy waves past my shoulders instead of the carefully maintained shoulder-length cut I've worn for a decade.
I'm twenty again.
"Non, non, non!" A voice calls from beyond the door, followed by rapid footsteps. "Ne te lève pas encore! J'apporte le café!"
The door bursts open, and a petite woman with a riot of dark curls bounces in, balancing two steaming mugs. She stops when she sees me standing.
"Ah, you're up! I thought you'd sleep until noon after yesterday." She hands me one of the mugs, the rich aroma of coffee filling my nostrils. "You were painting like a woman possessed. I've never seen anyone work for fourteen hours straight."
Her face is heart-shaped, her French accent thick but her English fluent. She's familiar in a way that makes my head spin—a memory struggling to surface.
"Marie?" The name emerges from some forgotten corner of my mind.
She rolls her eyes dramatically. "Oui, c'est moi. Who else would bring you coffee in bed? That American boy you met at Café de Flore? He looked at you like you were the reincarnation of Monet, but I don't think he's the coffee-in-bed type yet." She winks, dropping onto the edge of my bed and tucking her feet beneath her.
Marie. My roommate in Paris. The one I'd shared this apartment with during my time at École des Beaux-Arts. The one whose wedding invitation I'd declined five years ago—or ten years in the future—because Tom had an important work event.
"What day is it?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
Marie gives me an odd look. "Sunday. The twenty-third. You promised we would go to the flea market, remember? Unless you're too hungover from all that terrible wine you drink while painting."
"No, I mean... what year?"
She laughs, the sound bright and musical. "Did you hit your head when I wasn't looking? It's 2009, chérie. The year our dreams come true, remember? You said that on New Year's Eve."
2009.
Fifteen years earlier.
The mug slips from my fingers, coffee splashing across the wooden floor. Marie jumps up with a yelp.
"Lily! What is wrong with you?" She rushes to the kitchenette, grabbing a dishcloth to mop up the puddle of coffee. "That's the second mug you've broken this month!"
"I'm sorry," I stammer, sinking back onto the bed. "I just... had the strangest dream."
Marie's irritation softens. "Must have been quite the nightmare. You're white as a ghost." She presses the back of her hand to my forehead. "No fever. Maybe you're just exhausted. You've been working too hard on your submission for the Lefèvre Gallery."
The Lefèvre Gallery. The name hits me like a physical blow. My first real opportunity. The exhibition that could have launched my career—would have, if my paintings had sold. But they hadn't, and the rejection had sent me spiraling into doubt, right into the arms of stability and security. Right into a small town and a life that slowly suffocated my creativity.
And right into Tom's orbit—the man who would become my husband, who would promise to support my art but gradually pull me away from it with subtle criticisms and practical concerns.
"The submission," I repeat. "When is that due?"
"Next week. But yours is practically finished, non? That stormy seascape you were working on yesterday—it's magnificent, Lily. Your best work." Marie sits beside me again, concern etched on her youthful face. "Are you sure you're okay?"
I touch my neck, fingers finding the familiar shape of my grandmother's locket. It feels unusually warm against my skin, pulsing slightly like it has a heartbeat of its own. I open it with trembling fingers, and there it is—the tiny scrap of paper with my grandmother's handwriting: *Pour retrouver ton chemin*.
To find your way back.
"I need to see my paintings," I say suddenly, standing again with more confidence.
Marie shrugs. "They're where you left them. In the living room. You turned it into your personal studio, remember? I can barely walk through without getting paint on my clothes."
I move toward the door, my legs feeling steadier now. The apartment comes back to me in flashes—the narrow hallway with its peeling wallpaper, the tiny bathroom we shared, the main room that served as kitchen, dining room, and living space all in one.
And there, taking up most of the available floor space, is an easel with a large canvas. I approach it slowly, my heart hammering against my ribs.
The painting is exactly as I remember creating it—a stormy seascape, waves crashing against jagged rocks, both violent and beautiful. The same painting that Tom would later call "too dark for our living room." The last painting I ever completed.
Except now, it's not finished. It's maybe three-quarters done, with sections still waiting for detail and depth. And it's better than I remembered—more raw, more honest, more alive.
"It's going to be your masterpiece," Marie says, coming to stand beside me. "Monsieur Lefèvre will take one look and sign you immediately."
I reach out, fingers hovering just above the canvas, feeling the energy radiating from it. This painting represents the crossroads of my life—the moment before everything changed.
"I need to finish it," I whisper.
"Of course you do. But maybe eat something first? You barely touched your dinner last night." Marie moves to the small kitchenette, opening the refrigerator. "I can make eggs."
I nod absently, my attention caught by a sketchbook lying open on a small table near the easel. I recognize it—the leather-bound book my grandmother gave me before I left for Paris. I used to carry it everywhere.
I pick it up, flipping through pages filled with quick studies, notes about color and light, sketches of Parisian rooftops and gardens. Near the back, I find a page with writing that makes my blood freeze.
In my own handwriting, but with a certainty I don't recall possessing at twenty, are the words: *Choose wisely this time*.
"Marie," I call, my voice shaking. "Did you see anyone touch my sketchbook?"
She looks over her shoulder, cracking eggs into a bowl. "Non. No one has been here except us. Why?"
I stare at the message, running my fingers over the indentations in the paper. It's definitely my handwriting, but I have no memory of writing it.
"No reason," I lie, closing the book and clutching it to my chest.
My mind races with impossible questions. How am I here? Is this a coma dream, my brain's last desperate firing of neurons before death? Or has something truly impossible happened?
The necklace warms against my skin again, as if responding to my thoughts.
"Lily?" Marie's voice pulls me back to the present—or is it the past? "Your eggs are ready."
I turn to her, this friend I'd forgotten, this life I'd abandoned. "Thanks," I manage to say, setting the sketchbook down carefully.
As I move to the small table where Marie has placed our breakfast, my gaze falls on a calendar hanging on the wall. June 23, 2009. I do the math quickly—in just over three months, I'll meet Tom at a gallery opening in New York. The gallery owner will introduce us, mentioning that Tom's investment bank is looking to acquire art for their new offices. Tom will be charming, attentive, impressed by my work. He'll ask me to dinner.
And everything will change.
But there's something else—something I'd nearly forgotten in the fog of my married years. Before Tom, there was another man. Alexandre Durand. The owner of the prestigious Durand Publishing House, who'd come to our school looking for artists to illustrate a new collection of classic French literature.
Alexandre, with his penetrating gray eyes and commanding presence. Alexandre, who'd singled me out from a room full of talented artists. Alexandre, who'd offered me my first real commission but demanded perfection with every stroke.
Alexandre, who I'd walked away from when his intensity frightened me—right into Tom's safer, more comfortable arms.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," Marie says, studying my face as she sits across from me.
"Maybe I have," I reply softly. "The ghost of who I might have been."
Marie tilts her head, confusion crossing her features. "You're being very strange today. Very... philosophical."
I force a smile, picking up my fork. "Just thinking about choices. About paths not taken."
"Ah, the great existential crisis of the artist." Marie grins, spearing a piece of egg. "Save it for your paintings, chérie. They're better for it."
She pauses, her expression shifting to excitement. "Oh! I almost forgot to tell you. Monsieur Durand called while you were sleeping."
My fork freezes halfway to my mouth. "Alexandre Durand?"
"Oui. The Alexandre Durand." Marie's eyes sparkle with mischief. "The most eligible bachelor in Paris's publishing world—and the most terrifying boss, according to Sophia who works in his office. He wants to see your new work. Tomorrow. At his office."
The eggs turn to ash in my mouth. Alexandre Durand. The man whose intensity had both thrilled and terrified me. The man who had seen something in my art that even I couldn't see.
The man I'd rejected for Tom's safer shores.
"Did he say why?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.
Marie shrugs. "Something about the illustration project. He said—let me remember his exact words—'Tell Mademoiselle Bennett that I expect to see significant improvement since our last meeting. Mediocrity is not an option.'"
I almost laugh. That was Alexandre—demanding, uncompromising, brutally honest. He'd criticized my first illustrations mercilessly, pointing out every flaw, every hesitation in my brushstrokes. But he'd also seen potential in me that no one else had.
"You're not actually going, are you?" Marie asks, watching my face carefully. "After what happened last time? He made you cry, Lily."
Had he? I search my memories, trying to separate what actually happened from the story I'd told myself over the years. Yes, he'd been harsh. Yes, his criticism had stung. But the tears—those had come later, when I'd realized I wasn't brave enough to meet his challenge.
"I'm going," I say with a certainty that surprises even me.
Marie's eyebrows shoot up. "Really? What changed?"
Everything, I want to say. Fifteen years of regret. A marriage that slowly drained the color from my world. A car crash that somehow sent me back to the crossroads of my life.
Instead, I simply say, "I have."
I stand and move to the unfinished painting, seeing it with new eyes—eyes that have witnessed fifteen years of playing it safe, of choosing security over passion. The storm I've painted isn't just any storm—it's the one that would eventually send me over that cliff edge.
But this time, I won't let fear guide my hand.
This time, I'll face Alexandre Durand's intensity instead of running from it. I'll prove to him—and to myself—that I have the courage to create something extraordinary.
And somewhere, fifteen years in a future that may never come to pass, Tom will look at the life we might have had and wonder what could have been. He'll see my paintings hanging in galleries he visits with clients. He'll hear my name mentioned in art circles. He'll realize what he lost when he slowly, systematically dismantled my dreams in the name of practical concerns.
The necklace pulses once more against my skin, as if to say: *That's entirely up to you*.
I touch it gently, feeling its warmth spread through my fingertips. "I will," I whisper, too softly for Marie to hear. "I'll choose differently this time."
I turn back to my unfinished painting, seeing now what it needs—not less darkness, as Tom would later suggest, but more light breaking through the storm clouds. A contrast that speaks of hope amid chaos, of possibility within destruction.
Just like the second chance I've been given.
"Marie," I say, already reaching for my palette, "I need to finish this painting before tomorrow."
She studies me with curious eyes. "You look different today, Lily. Like you've... I don't know... found something you lost."
I smile, mixing colors with a confidence I'd forgotten I once possessed. "Not found," I correct her. "Remembered."
As I lift my brush to the canvas, I feel a thrill of anticipation at the thought of facing Alexandre Durand again. His demanding gray eyes. His uncompromising standards. His ability to see through pretense to the heart of things.
This time, I won't run from the storm. I'll paint it, in all its terrifying beauty.
And perhaps, in doing so, I'll finally find my way home.
