Paris Turned To Gold & A Silver Heart

Autumn is here, and Paris has turned to gold, melting my heart in its warmth.

In Anne of Green Gables, L.M. Montgomery wrote, "I am so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers." Today, I felt that sentiment in every step I took.

I spent the day walking, simply letting the city reveal itself to me. I caught the bus from home, and as we approached the Flame of Liberty—Diana’s memorial—I pressed the stop button without thinking. The golden leaf caught my eye in the distance, and before I knew it, I was there, kneeling by the flowers and love lockets left by strangers.

For a few minutes, I stood in quiet reflection, tucking my chin into my scarf, breathing in the crisp air. I whispered prayers into the wind, and in return, the trees along the avenues trembled as if in acknowledgment. Crumbled leaves blanketed the streets in hues of sunset, a soft reminder of time folding into itself.

"Autumn is the hardest season. The leaves are all falling, and they're falling like they’re falling in love with the ground." —Andrea Gibson

As I wandered, I thought about the seasons—how they reflect the shifting rhythms of our own lives, the uncontrollable, inevitable ebb and flow of change. Paris in autumn is a city wrapped in reflection, in transition, in beauty that cannot be held onto but must be experienced as it happens.

I adore the sight of glowing cafés, their neon warmth spilling onto sidewalks as people huddle inside, escaping the wind. The Seine looked dark and moody, as if it had swallowed a storm. Everywhere I turned, the air was sharp enough to snap between my fingers, the trees towering above in every lush shade of green, punctuated by fiery bursts of red and yellow.

Today, I didn’t need anything else—just the city, the season, and the space to witness it all.

“You expected to be sad in the fall. Part of you died each year when the leaves fell from the trees and their branches were bare against the wind and the cold, wintery light. But you knew there would always be the spring, as you knew the river would flow again after it was frozen. When the cold rains kept on and killed the spring, it was as though a young person died for no reason.”
― Ernest Hemingway


It looked like the world was covered in a cobbler crust of brown sugar and cinnamon. One thing about living in Paris through all the seasons was that you could taste it—an unspoken flavor lingering on your tongue, leaving you both satiated and craving more all at once.

I wandered along the Seine, tracing the bridges, through the Tuileries, all the way up to Pont Neuf. I lingered near Notre Dame, then crossed over to Shakespeare & Co. The afternoon was slipping away, and by 4 p.m., the faint glow of the sun behind the dark clouds grew scarcer. Her warmth, absent.

The city felt beautifully cinematic, wrapped in the kind of melancholy that makes everything more profound. The sky darkened to steel, streetlights flickered to life, their soft glow catching the mist that drifted in with the breeze. The first stars blinked awake, barely visible behind the veil of clouds, as the moon began her quiet ascent. The air was cold, damp with the promise of rain. Thin frost kissed the cobblestones, and by morning, some of the trees—now ablaze in color—would stand barer than before.

And so the seasons change. And so we too learn to release, to let go. To grow braver for the winter, so that we may soon flourish in the spring. And so the cycles go.

It felt later than it was. A quiet excitement tingled through me, like the thrill of a child still awake past bedtime, secretly savoring the world. The city, on a Sunday, late afternoon—its streets nearly empty as people gathered their thoughts, their things, preparing for the Monday looming ahead. I, too, would usually be in bed by now, wrapped in warmth, surrendering to the stillness.

But European autumns, winters, and Sundays have a way of blending into one another, their slow unraveling an invitation to rest. And who is to say it’s too early to crawl beneath the covers when even the sun retires by 3 p.m.?

I stood for a while in front of the bookstore, the courtyard that had once been a haven of summer’s chaos now eerily silent. Just months ago, it had been alive with people filling water bottles in the fountain, seeking shade beneath the trees, licking ice cream from their fingers while sifting through the book exchange shelves stalled out front. Now, it stood empty, the ghosts of summer lingering in the air. The fountains, though still running, seemed frozen in time.

I ducked inside. The bell on the door chimed, a quiet, familiar welcome. The air inside was thick with dust and stories. I moved softly, as if not to disturb something sacred. The store, once filled with murmured conversations, the rustling of pages, the distant hum of a piano, now held only the sound of my footsteps against the old wooden floors.

I crept up the stairs to the poetry section, to the small room tucked round the back where the resident cat would always sleep—curled up by the typewriter, or nestled in my lap as I played the piano, her tiny paws swiping at my fingers as they danced along the keys.

At first, the front-facing room at the top of the stairs seemed empty too. A Persian rug lay at its center, the wooden chairs pushed neatly around the perimeter, as if waiting for a gathering that would never come. Lining the walls, shelves held the oldest books in the store, volumes so worn and rare they weren’t even to be rented out. The air was thick with their stories, their whispered histories pressing against me.

I took a deep breath, letting the quiet settle into my bones. The city may have turned cold, but in here, between these walls, time stood still.

Upon closer inspection, it was as if I could hear hearts beating or sense minds racing. The room, which had seemed empty at first, was in fact filled with quiet life. I saw shoes first—scuffed leather, polished oxfords, worn-out boots—then more, legs of wooden chairs disappearing beneath still bodies. A small group of strangers, maybe seven, sat along the window benches, each engrossed in a book, heads bowed, fingers tracing delicate spines as if handling something sacred.

An older woman with thick, red-framed glasses was taking notes in a small leather journal, pouring tea with practiced precision. The steam curled upward, rising like a quiet protest against the frozen mist outside.

The floor creaked beneath my weight. I felt exposed, uninvited. My instinct was to retreat, but something held me still. No one looked up, no one broke the trance. They were lost in the words, suspended between pages.

Then, the old woman lifted her gaze, meeting mine. Without hesitation, she gestured me forward with an eager sweep of her palm, a silent invitation.

Drawn in as if under a spell, I stepped closer. My gloves were still on. She handed me a saucer and a cup, the warmth of the porcelain seeping into my fingertips. I moved to sit beside a man dressed in all black, his soft blonde hair falling just past his collar. A silver snake chain rested against his chest, a single anatomical heart pendant swaying each time he shifted in his chair, no doubt caught at the edge of suspense within his book.

He smelled of tobacco, with a hint of vanilla.

I felt my face warm. I forgot to breathe in any kind of rhythmic manner.

Without looking up, as if by natural reflex, he tilted the book toward me to share.

I hesitated. It still felt as though I had walked in on a secret, a question I might not know the answer to.

Slipping off my gloves, I cupped the warm tea between my palms, breathing in deeply. Chamomile. My legs ached from the miles I had wandered. The morning now felt like another lifetime. I wasn’t entirely sure where I had found myself, but I knew, instinctively, that I was safe.

The woman began to read, her voice steady, deliberate. A ring on each finger traced the sentences as she spoke. She wore wool-lined boots, thick knitted socks peeking out just above the leather, layered beneath the flowing silk of a lilac dress and linen robes. As she crossed one leg over the other, the hem of her dress swept the floor—slightly frayed from this movement, yet somehow ethereal, as if she were floating.

The sound of her boots, however, anchored her. A nice juxtaposition, both in style and being.

A thick, knitted yellow scarf draped over the back of her chair. At her feet rested a leather journal, its cover carved with intricate designs, a gemstone molded into its center, catching the dim light.

She seemed otherworldly. Soft.

The rest of the afternoon melted into evening. We read Hardy, Rilke, Mary Oliver, Keats, T.S. Eliot, and shared our favorite Rumi. The man beside me eventually told me his name—Etienne.

The stories and words exchanged within those pages, the quiet whispers passed between us, are kept secret, locked away. Some moments are too sacred for words to hold.

That evening, I walked home through the fog, the city wrapped in a hush. On the metro, I listened to Yann Tiersen, the notes folding into the quiet hum of the train. That night, I dreamt of ancient scrolls unfurling, pages widening beneath me as I fell into the worlds they held. Syllables and accents wrapped around me like warmth. I was weightless, descending onto a bed of soft, velvet leaves, before being drawn upward, pulled gently into the constellations.

I returned to Shakespeare and Co. many times after that, always on Sundays. But I never saw that group again. Some part of me didn’t want to—so that afternoon could remain a dream.

And yet, every time I noticed a silver chain around a stranger’s neck, I searched for the matching heart. And when winter markets arrived, I collected a ring for every finger.

“Is not this a true autumn day? Just the still melancholy that I love - that makes life and nature harmonise. The birds are consulting about their migrations, the trees are putting on the hectic or the pallid hues of decay, and begin to strew the ground, that one's very footsteps may not disturb the repose of earth and air, while they give us a scent that is a perfect anodyne to the restless spirit. Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns."

[Letter to Miss Lewis, Oct. 1, 1841]”
― George Eliot