Mon histoire

Previously

…Her fingers traced the cool glass, a familiar gesture that now carried a new weight, a palpable sense of anticipation. The scent of turpentine and linseed oil, usually a comforting balm to her artistic spirit, seemed to mingle with the faint, sweet fragrance of the jasmine that bloomed on the balcony, a scent that had become inextricably linked with him. He was late. Not fashionably late, not impishly late, but a breath-held-in, wondering-if-he-would-arrive late. A flicker of doubt, a shadow from the past, tried to creep in, whispering cautionary tales of fleeting moments and promises un