A letter arrived
on a brittle autumn morning,
its seal from a renowned literary magazine
trembling
in Elias's unsteady hands.
He tore it open,
his breath snagging
as he read:
"Dear Mr. Moreau,
your poem 'The Weight of a Single Breath'
has been selected for publication.
We invite you to read at our Paris gala."
Joy flared within him—
brief, bright—
a rare smile breaking
through his weariness.
This was his dream:
His voice
echoing beyond their small town.
But the thrill withered
as quickly as it bloomed.
Paris
was a distant mirage.
His body
was too frail
to chase it.
Celeste found him at the table,
the letter crumpled
in his trembling fist,
tears carving silent paths
down his cheeks.
"What's happened?"
she asked,
alarm sharpening her tone.
He thrust the letter toward her,
mute
with grief.
Her eyes scanned the words,
brightening with pride.
"Elias, this is incredible!" she said—
then faltered
at the anguish carved across his face.
"What's wrong?"
"I can't go,"
he said,
his voice splintering.
"I can't leave you,
and I can't survive the journey."
She sank beside him,
clasping his hands
as if to anchor his unraveling.
"We'll find a way,"
she said, resolute.
"They can have your poems,
or host you here."
He shook his head.
"It's not the same,"
he whispered,
the weight of his limits
crushing him.
"I wanted to stand there,
to feel my words live."
She cradled his face in both hands,
eyes shining.
"Your words do live, Elias.
They touch me—
they change me—
and they'll touch the world,
Paris or not."
He leaned into her,
drawing solace from her faith,
his breath shallow
but warm against her shoulder.
That night,
with the sea's murmur as their lullaby,
he penned a new poem.
"Paris in My Mind"
—a hymn of triumph and loss,
of dreams held tight
even as they slipped away.