Until a summer day, life moved gently, predictably.

Jeremy was soon to turn twenty. The fields had begun their slow shift from green to gold, and the crickets sang their songs deep into the evenings. Life on the farm hadn’t changed much—except for the lemons.

This year, Eloïse’s lemon trees had burst into abundance. The fruit was heavy on the branches, pulling them toward the ground like golden bells. There were crates upon crates stacked beneath the kitchen window. She sold them at the morning market, bundled them into baskets for neighbors, even tried to trade them with the baker for flour and salt. But still, there were too many. More than the earth should’ve been able to give.

One afternoon, Jeremy stood beneath the canopy of yellow and watched his mother in the distance, wiping sweat from her brow with the back of her wrist. She moved slower than she used to. Her hands lingered longer on her lower back. She still smiled—but the kind of smile that came through exhaustion.

Jeremy stared at the lemons. Then, at his sketchbook. Then, toward the distant curve of the shoreline, where laughter and waves reached the hills.

That night, without a word, he began planning.

The next morning, Eloïse stepped outside and stopped in her tracks. Jeremy was packing a cart. He had stacked jars of sugar, a crate of empty glass bottles, and several baskets filled with freshly picked lemons. A small sign, hand-painted in careful block letters, read: “CITRON FRAIS – LEMONADE MAISON” Just below it, in smaller text, was a shaky line of English: “Fresh Lemonade – 2€”

He wore a white tank top, jean shorts, his worn-out straw hat shading his face. A water bottle clinked against his hip in a canvas bag. His shoulders were square, not with pride—but with purpose.

Eloïse stood frozen, tears rising to her eyes. “You… you want to sell lemonade?” She asked gently. Jeremy nodded once. Then reached into his bag and handed her a page from his sketchbook: a detailed drawing of a beach stand, umbrellas, happy faces with lemon slices in their hands—and his own small figure behind the counter.

Her breath caught.

He had been watching. Thinking. Planning this—despite his fear. Despite how hard it was for him to talk to people. He was doing this for her.

That afternoon, he wheeled the cart down to the beachfront. It was a quiet little patch of Toulon’s coast, lined with soft sand and dotted with parasols. He set up his stand beside a slope of pale stones, close enough to hear the sea but far from the busiest crowds.

He arranged everything just as he had sketched it.

The lemonade was made fresh: tart but sweet, poured into ice-filled jars with thin lemon slices and mint leaves. It glowed in the sunlight like bottled sunlight itself. But the beachgoers passed by, barely glancing. Most went to the bigger cafés or had packed their own drinks.

Until you.

You had come to Toulon from Paris, eager to escape the clamor of the city. You weren’t alone—your friends were nearby, laying out towels and applying sunscreen, laughing and snapping photos. But something about the stillness of the lemonade stand caught your eye.

No line. No customers. Just a boy with a straw hat and thoughtful hands.

He didn’t seem like a vendor, not in the usual way. He didn’t hustle. He didn’t smile wide. He just... was. Like a still life in motion. A painting on the sand.

Something in that stillness pulled you. So you stepped away from your friends and walked over, your sandals crunching softly on the sand.

As you approached, Jeremy’s eyes flicked up. Only for a second. Long enough to register you. A stranger. A newcomer. His breath caught—not out of fear, but surprise. You weren’t loud. You didn’t crowd. You looked… curious.

He fumbled slightly with the glass in his hand, then stood. Taller than you expected. Slim, sun-touched, with calm eyes that studied you like you were something delicate.