The year was 1829.
The July sun beat down on the streets of France. A young priest named Claude had taken his daughter to Marseille to enjoy the heat while it lasted. They sat on the shore, the golden sand warm beneath them, the sea humming its endless hymn.
Elise, a pale girl with long, flowing blonde hair, darted down to the water, her little legs kicking up sand. She had been bedridden most of her life, plagued by inherited hemorrhagic illness. Her mother had died from it; Claude himself would succumb years later. But that day—this moment—was her first time seeing the ocean, the first time her toes sank into real earth.
Claude watched from the shore, a tear gleaming in the corner of his eye. His daughter danced across the shallows, laughing freely, bathed in the sunlight like a miracle.
Then, beside her, appeared a boy.
He was rail-thin, his ribs showing beneath torn rags. A street orphan with no name, no home, no family. Yet Elise, without hesitation, reached out and took his hand.
The two of them danced together as if it were their last day on Earth. They ran through the surf—she started ahead, but the boy soon passed her.
Then Elise collapsed.
After that day, Claude never took her back to the beach. But she had brought something home with her: the boy.
Claude didn't formally adopt him, but he welcomed him into the church and gave him a bed under his roof. He named him Julian—after his own father. Normally, he wouldn't have taken in a stranger. But the way Elise smiled around the boy—how her eyes lit up—melted any protest he might've had.
As the years passed, the two children grew closer. Their seed slowly blossomed into their own little romance.
At night, Julian would read to her. Her favorite was Romeo and Juliet. She used to say she'd be happy if they could live out that story together—so long as they shared it to the end. Eventually, they scraped together enough money to attend a live performance of the play. It was her dream.
They had planned to arrive early. But Elise had trouble walking that day—she was especially weak—and the weather turned fierce. Rain battered the streets, wind snapped their umbrella in half. Claude watched them leave with a sense of dread he couldn't name.
They arrived halfway through the first act, soaked through. Elise sniffled, embarrassed by the puddle forming in her seat. But Julian reassured her, holding her hand in the dark.
As the play went on, her smile returned. He adored that smile. He adored the impossible hope behind it. She spoke often of her dream to see Jerusalem. In her mind, it was Eden on Earth—a place untouched by sickness, a place where they could finally be free. She used to say she'd grow wings and carry him there, much reminiscent of Lumiere all those years later.
At the end of the play, the crowd erupted in applause.
But Elise did not rise.
Julian turned to her, smiling—until he saw her eyes. Wide. Unblinking.
A trickle of blood ran from her nose.
He shook her. Nothing. He called her name, louder and louder, but no one heard him over the thunder of clapping.
Sobbing, he lifted her into his arms and ran out into the storm, the wind howling as if it, too, mourned.
The next morning, she awoke to the sound of sobbing—her father's quiet weeping in the next room—and the soft, steady snore of the boy who had stayed by her side all night. Julian hadn't left her. Not once.
The blood had worsened. The diagnosis came swiftly: leukemia. A year, they said. Maybe less.
She was terrified.
But still, she smiled.
A few days later, she married Julian. It was a small ceremony. Modest. Intimate. It didn't matter—Elise had already made up her mind. She knew who she wanted to spend the rest of her life with, no matter how short that life might be.
That night, they conceived their only child. Julian, overwhelmed and aching to give her joy, let her choose the name. She spent months pondering it.
And then—a miracle.
Elise began to recover. Slowly at first, then more noticeably. Her pallor softened. Her strength returned. The doctors, once grim, now offered cautious optimism. The leukemia was easing. Perhaps not fatal after all.
But childbirth would still be dangerous. Very dangerous. Her condition demanded constant monitoring. Midwives. Preparation.
That didn't happen.
It was a dull sunset. A quiet drizzle blurred the streets. The two of them had gone out for a walk—she had insisted. The rain kissed her cheeks as she strolled beside him, talking about memories, about their child, about their garden of dreams.
For the first time, the future didn't seem impossible. Jerusalem, wings, peace—it all felt so close she could almost touch it.
But it was not within reach.
Her steps faltered. Her head went light.
Then her water broke.
"Elise?"
She turned to him, her eyes filled with too much knowing.
"I love you. Forever."
She collapsed.
Julian rushed to her, his voice breaking as he cried out for help. But no one heard. Or maybe—no one listened.
He held her in his arms as the rain fell harder. The sky seemed to close in. Still, she touched his lips with her trembling fingers.
"You're being too loud, darling."
He sobbed harder.
"Elise, are you okay?! Please—just hold on!"
She smiled faintly. Her breath was thin.
"No. It hurts."
"I'll go—I'll find help—just wait here—"
"Don't."
Her hand brushed a tear from his cheek.
"Lumiere," she whispered. "I want to name him Lumiere."
As her eyes began to close, he screamed. It was not a human sound—it was something older, something ancient. A howl of soul-breaking grief. The kind only beasts or broken lovers knew.
Her eyes fluttered open one last time.
"Hey, Julian…"
He looked down, hope flaring.
"Yes—yes, I'm here, my love—what is it?"
"I love you."
She was gone before he could reply.
Moments later, Lumiere was born.
Julian lifted him softly, holding him in his arms—both of them soaked in blood.
A few days later, they buried Elise. There were no funds for a tombstone, so they planted a tree where she lay.
After the funeral, Julian approached Claude. His eyes were dark, hollow.
"Listen, Father," he said. "I want you to take care of Lumiere from now on."
Claude's eyes widened. "Why?"
Julian looked down at the baby. "I have no faith left. No God could ever let a woman like her die—and if one did, then I want no part in their world. A man like me isn't fit to raise a boy like that."
He passed Lumiere into Claude's arms and turned to leave, but Claude spoke again before he could go.
"He's a beautiful baby, isn't he? Just like his mother, in my opinion."
Julian shuddered slightly. "Yeah, I know... That's why I'm leaving him with you. I wouldn't want to ruin him."
He paused. "Thank you for everything, Father."
Claude's tears dripped onto Lumiere's face as he watched Julian walk away. It was the last time they would ever see each other.
Julian traveled to Marseille. He stood atop the cliffs where he and Elise had first met, ready to put an end to it all. Slowly, he stepped toward the edge—one step, then another, then another.
Then he saw it.
In his mind's eye, he saw Lumiere. And Elise. They were in a small wooden cabin, tucked away in their own little Eden.
He sat beside her at the fireplace, Lumiere asleep on her lap.
"So this is what we could've been, huh?" he whispered.
Elise looked at him and smiled.
"This is how we've always been—in our hearts."
Julian gave her a weak, somber smile. "I miss you, darling."
She crawled toward him, baby in her arms.
"Wait for me in the next life," she said, "because I promise you—this isn't the end. I told you before I died, didn't I? I'll love you forever. That's the one true thing in this life."
Both of them began to cry.
"Just wait, Julian. Wait for our Eden."
She smiled wide.
"But until then, let me hold you in my arms. Let me fly you away from here. You still have more waiting for you."
They embraced one final time. And in that embrace, she pulled him back—away from the cliff.
As Julian told this story to Lumiere, he began to understand what Claude had meant. His son had the same fire in his heart as Elise. He would carry her will.
And that's when he saw her.
Beside Lumiere—only for a moment—but he knew what he saw. It was Elise. And she finally had the wings she had always dreamed of.
She smiled, and Julian smiled back.
For the first time in eighteen years, he had found a purpose. A reason to live. A reason to make sure his son—the child of love and loss—would live a full life, and one day reach the Eden they had always dreamed of.
For the first time in longer than he could remember, he was at peace.