Alina read again—not to remember, and not to forget.
She read to enjoy.
The distinction mattered more than she had expected.
In the past, reading had often been a tool. A way to escape long evenings. A way to stay sharp. A way to justify quiet time as something productive. She had read with one eye on the clock, one eye on usefulness. Fiction for empathy. Non-fiction for leverage. Books had been companions, yes—but also instruments.
Here, reading had changed.
She read in the mornings sometimes, curled into the corner of the couch while the house was still cool. Other days she waited until afternoon, when the sun slanted through the windows and settled on the pages like a patient hand. Occasionally, she read at night, not to tire herself out, but because she wanted to stay awake just a little longer inside a sentence that pleased her.
She began with fiction again.
Not the kind that demanded urgency or cliffhangers, but stories that trusted the reader to stay. She lingered in descriptions. She reread paragraphs simply because they were well-shaped. She noticed how language could hold weight without raising its voice.
Then, slowly, she returned to non-fiction.
Essays first. Reflections. Books that examined ideas without trying to dominate them. She found herself pausing often—not because something confused her, but because something resonated. Her mind felt sharp again. Awake. Curious in a way that wasn't anxious.
Alive.
She kept a notebook now. Not for analysis, not for notes she intended to use later—just a place to copy sentences she loved. Sometimes she added a word in the margin. Sometimes nothing at all. The act of writing them down felt enough.
The weekly book club changed the way she read, too.
She read more attentively, knowing she would return to the text with others—not to defend an interpretation, but to share an experience. She noticed rhythm. She noticed what unsettled her, what comforted her, what made her pause unexpectedly.
At the table in Les Repas de la Famille, books lay open beside cups of tea and half-finished glasses of wine. Pages were dog-eared without apology. Pens appeared. Someone always brought pastries. Someone always forgot what page they were on.
Alina shared quotes now.
Not because she felt obliged to speak, but because something inside her wanted to be placed gently into the room.
"I liked this line," she said one evening, tapping the page. "Not because it's profound, but because it's honest."
Claire nodded. Thomas leaned forward. Isabelle listened with her chin resting on her hand.
The discussion followed—not debating, not dissecting, but circling the idea from different angles. Everyone brought something. No one tried to win.
Alina found herself reading with a pencil again, underlining not to conquer a text, but to stay with it longer. She asked questions she didn't feel the need to answer immediately. She allowed ambiguity to exist without rushing to resolve it.
Reading had become a pleasure that sharpened rather than dulled.
One afternoon, Isabelle stopped by after lunch, flour still dusting her sleeves. Alina was sitting at the kitchen table with a book open in front of her, notebook beside it.
"You look serious," Isabelle said, smiling.
"I'm not," Alina replied. "I'm enjoying myself."
Isabelle laughed softly. "That's the best kind."
They made tea and sat together, Alina reading aloud a passage she liked, Isabelle listening without interrupting. When Alina finished, Isabelle nodded once.
"That suits you," she said.
"What does?"
"That kind of reading," Isabelle replied. "Present. Curious. Not trying to prove anything."
Alina closed the book gently. "It feels… generous. Toward myself."
Isabelle smiled, pleased.
*****
Later that week, at the restaurant in Nice, Luc leaned against the counter watching the dining room settle into its evening rhythm. Isabelle stood beside him, checking something on her phone.
"You didn't tell me much about her," Luc said casually.
Isabelle didn't look up. "About whom?"
"You know exactly who."
She sighed. "What do you want to know?"
Luc shrugged. "She seems… different."
"That's not a question."
"No," he agreed. "It's an observation."
Isabelle finally looked at him. "And?"
"And I'm curious," Luc said lightly. "She reads like someone who listens. She moves like she isn't bracing for impact."
Isabelle studied him for a moment, measuring tone rather than words.
"She's finding her footing," Isabelle said. "That's all you need to know."
Luc nodded, accepting the boundary without offense. "Fair."
"She's not a project," Isabelle added.
Luc smiled faintly. "Neither is she invisible."
Isabelle's gaze sharpened. "Careful."
"I am," he replied easily. "Always."
*****
Back in Èze, Alina finished her chapter and closed the book. The house was quiet, not empty. She placed the bookmark carefully, as if the pages deserved it, and stood to stretch.
Her mind felt clear.
Not because she had solved anything.
But because she was engaged again—with words, with ideas, with the slow pleasure of attention.
She washed her cup, set it to dry, and stepped outside as evening settled. The sky deepened. The garden breathed.
Inside her, something steady held.
She wasn't reading to rewrite herself.
She was reading because she liked who she was becoming while doing it.
And that, she knew now, was reason enough.