I ran into her ten years later. I was there with my family, buying brightly tacky mementoes at the market. Then I saw the café and remembered. We were hungry, so I took my family inside.
Nothing much changed. Dumplings and fresh juice, steaming coffee and hot chocolate with chili peppers. After we ate, I asked about Camille B. I was told she no longer worked here, but that she lived down the street, in a house with the lavender garden in the front.
I left my family at the café, lingering over their hot chocolates and ran down the street. The lavender scent hit me before I even saw the house.
Camille was home. She was out back, varnishing a table she painted. I did not know what to say to her, but I had to see her. We set under a linden tree and drank ice water. She smiled.
“I have lived an ordinary life. Without my wings, there’s nothing special about me. So I do as I please.”
She seemed happy. Free.
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