The hospital room was quiet, save for the soft hum of machines and the occasional chirp of birds outside the window. Sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting a golden glow on the bed where Arman lay, his body frail but his spirit still flickering with warmth. He had always been the kind of person who made life feel like a movie—full of laughter, mischief, and dreams that stretched far beyond the horizon.
His biggest dream had always been Paris.
Not just the Eiffel Tower or the Louvre, but the feeling of Paris—the cobbled streets, the smell of fresh croissants, the sound of violins echoing through Montmartre. He used to say, “I don’t want to just see Paris. I want to feel it. I want to breathe it in like poetry.”
But cancer doesn’t care about dreams.
It came quietly, like a thief in the night, stealing his strength, his appetite, and eventually, his ability to walk. Yet through it all, Arman never stopped talking about Paris. Even when the doctors said the treatments weren’t working. Even when the travel plans were canceled. Even when he knew he wouldn’t make it.
“I’ll go there in my mind,” he whispered one day, smiling faintly. “Close your eyes with me. Let’s go.”
So I did.
I closed my eyes and let him guide me through the city he had never seen but somehow knew intimately. “We’re walking along the Seine,” he said, his voice barely audible. “The water’s shimmering. There’s a couple kissing on a bench. And look—Notre-Dame is right there, majestic and ancient.”
I nodded, tears slipping down my cheeks. “What else do you see?”
He smiled. “A little bakery. The kind that smells like heaven. We go in, and the old man behind the counter gives us two pain au chocolat. We sit outside, and the world slows down.”
That became our ritual. Every day, we visited Paris together. Sometimes we strolled through the gardens of Versailles. Other days we climbed the steps of Sacré-Cœur and looked out over the city. He described the colors, the sounds, the people. It was as if he had lived there in another life.
One afternoon, he asked me to bring him a beret. “I want to look the part,” he joked. I found one at a local shop and placed it gently on his head. He beamed. “Très chic,” he said, laughing softly.
His body was failing, but his imagination soared.
On his final night, the room was dim, and the air felt heavy. I sat beside him, holding his hand. He looked at me, eyes glassy but still full of light. “Let’s go to Paris one last time,” he whispered.
I nodded, choking back sobs. “Where to?”
He closed his eyes. “The Eiffel Tower. It’s lit up. We’re standing underneath it, looking up. It’s so tall, it touches the stars.”
“And what do you feel?” I asked.
He smiled. “Peace. I feel peace.”
Those were his last words.
After he passed, I couldn’t stop thinking about our imaginary journeys. I started writing them down, each one a chapter of a book he never got to finish. I called it Paris in the Heart. It wasn’t just a tribute—it was a promise. That dreams, even unfulfilled, leave behind a legacy.
A few months later, I went to Paris.
I walked the streets we had imagined. I sat by the Seine. I ate pain au chocolat at a tiny bakery and wore the same beret he had worn. I climbed to the top of Sacré-Cœur and looked out over the city, whispering his name into the wind.
And when I stood beneath the Eiffel Tower, I looked up and saw the stars.
I felt peace.
