It was late afternoon in Paris, 1953. The light was soft, golden on the wet streets, and the city carried that quiet hum between day and evening.

Nikolai Laurent walked down Boulevard Saint-Germain with a bouquet of red roses in hand. He had dressed carefully — dark suit, crisp collar, hair combed back — though his heart beat faster than he’d ever admit.

He’d first seen her two weeks ago at Café des Amis, where she worked behind the counter, smiling kindly at every customer. Since then, he had come every day for a coffee he barely touched, just to hear her say his name.

Today, he intended to do more. He knew she finished work at six. He would walk in, set the roses down, and — if courage allowed — ask for her number, or to walk her home.

As he reached the café door, rain still clinging to his coat, Nikolai allowed himself a small breath. For all his poise, all his practiced calm, he was just a young man in love — hoping a single smile might change everything.

He stepped inside, placed the roses on the counter, and said softly, “Forgive me, mademoiselle… but I thought these belonged to you.”