Paris

War arrived in her tiny space in the world on steel wings with bombs falling from its ravening, greedy maw, fire blazing in its soulless eyes and jagged bullet teeth, it settled in during a long summer. An unfriendly guest, it brought only death and misery and took everything she had. Her home, her friends, her mother, and grandmother and, finally, her brother.

She was fast and small, nimble, and smart. She survived war’s initial visit, but as the tsunami of war reached its highest tide and receded it left one last parting gift. Hunger. As the hot winds of summer gave way to the chill autumn breezes slipping off the ocean the scraps she’d borrowed, begged, and stole from tables vanished. Finally, as summer faded to memory, she made her way, for what she suspected would be the last time, to the ashen ruins she had called home a scant four months earlier.

She was dying. Even at 10 years old she was well acquainted with death. She’d seen so much it seemed like a constant companion, now. Hunger had stolen her speed and clouded her eyes. Her legs, mere twigs, now, barely kept her upright as she stumbled through the charred remains of her home and sat down against the blasted wall where her room had once been. She pulled the tattered, threadbare blanket her grandmother and her had made around her shoulders and rested her torn, dirty, plush bunny on her knees and lay her head back against the charcoal. The city around her, once so full of light and life, was dark and brooding, a fitting final spot, she thought. One more ghost among the thousands skulking amongst the ruins.

“Do you live here?” The voice in her language but with strange inflection caused her eyes to snap open. A soldier with a foreign uniform stood outlined against the pale moon, the gun slung across his shoulder a reminder that, though the war over, its instruments still played the tune. Had she the strength she would have scampered away. She was a smart girl and had planned her escape in case anyone tried to hurt her.

Her eyes glanced toward the fireplace still standing like a crumbling finger not far from where she sat. In the back of fireplace was a small tunnel she had dug to the ruins of a fishmonger shop. Too small for anyone but her to fit through that was her escape. Or, it had been. She was too tired and weak and slow, now. Her eyes found the soldier’s silhouette once more and she sighed. Nothing mattered much anymore. Even if he hurt her, she wouldn’t live through the next day most likely. He waited patiently for her to answer and eventually, with a long sigh, she nodded.

The soldier nodded in satisfaction and drew closer, causing her to shrink back as much as she could and hold her bunny up weakly as a ward against what was coming. She didn’t want to be hurt. Even if nothing mattered, she didn’t want pain. She had seen others hurt and her bravery melted away and left fear in her heart. The soldier paused for a moment before moving the bunny down slightly so he could see her smudged and gaunt face, searching her eyes for something.

“This is from your father,” he said in her language with his strange inflection. “I met him on the shores of an unimportant island he was defending, and I was attacking. I tried to save him, but it was too late. I’m sorry.” His big hands seemed to shake as he held out a small black notebook to her. Her eyes scanned the cover. It was her father’s. He always carried it to write scraps of poetry or funny or interesting things he’d seen or experienced. “I promised I would bring this notebook to his family. I see, though, you are all that’s left.” With trembling hands, she took the book from him cautiously. “This is from me.” He lowered a bag he’d been carrying on his shoulder to the ground next to her. Food and clean water could be seen by the light of the full moon in its depths. “You must be starving so eat slowly.” She glanced down at the book and then at the bag and eventually at the soldier as he turned to leave.

“What’s your name?” The girl asked. The soldier turned to her and smiled, the first genuine smile she’d seen in what felt like an eternity.

“Sgt. Ellington Paris,” he said and tipped his helmet to her in deference.

“Th-thank you!” She managed. He bowed and stepped away, vanishing into the night as if he had never been.

She opened the book while chewing some salted meat from the bag steadily and carefully as she’d been told. The pages were torn in places and stained but the last entry was written in her father’s small, neat script. He had taught her to read and write and she recognized his handwriting easily.

“Go to the shrine at Winding Wood,” the note said. “I left a gift there.”

She left before dawn, the delicious food rejuvenating her. She hurried through the ruined, empty streets and out of town, slipping off the main road and onto a wooded path. Through many twists and turns she hurried until she stood in front of the small shrine her family used to leave offerings at. She fell to her knees and dug in the slightly moist dirt at the base of the statue there. Her deft fingers eventually happened upon a tin box. She opened the box shakily and stared at what was inside. More money than she’d ever seen. 20000 dollars, in fact. And a note in her father’s hand which simply said “Thrive.”

“What do you want? We have nothing to hand out to street trash,” the man behind the desk in one of the few buildings left whole in town glared at the raggedly-dressed little girl who had walked through his door.

“I…” She paused, intimidated by his glare of disapproval but steeled herself regardless and plunged ahead. “I want to buy the shop down by the river.” The man was aware of the shop she was referring to, the previous owners had fled town several years ago and never returned, only sending him a letter asking him to sell.

“This isn’t a charity, you know,” the man’s scowl deepened. “You need money.”

“I will give you five thousand dollars in cash for it,” the little girl declared firmly.

“The price is fifteen thousand,” the man replied.

“Very well,” the girl smiled sweetly. “I will go somewhere else. Thank you.” She had almost left the building when he stopped her.

“Do you have the money with you?” The man sighed. The girl turned back and took a wad of bills from her pocket. “Fine. The building’s yours.” Five thousand was less than the building was worth, but no one was buying property with the war going on. He’d probably get it back sooner or later, he thought, and it was better to have gotten something than nothing at all.

She was a smart girl. A hard worker. War couldn’t last forever. Using the skills her mother and grandmother had taught her, she opened the shop the next month. Blankets and warm clothes expertly and quickly made sold at a fair price for those who could afford it and given away to those who couldn’t.

She opened her second shop when she turned twenty. Her intelligence and business acumen served her well and as the years slipped past, some bitter, others sweet, Paris Fashion grew and prospered, her family along with it. She got married and had children. She opened more stores, selling the finest clothes available and giving away to those who couldn’t afford it blankets and sturdy outfits to help with long winters.

Her clothing empire grew as peace filled her land. Her children got married and had children who knew nothing of the horrors of war. Those who bought the clothes couldn’t fathom the horrors of war and only understood that Paris Fashion made the best clothes at affordable rates. As she grew, she stepped away from the daily grind of business and began to think about both her past and the present. She wanted to give hope to those with the strength to seize it. She wanted to give the gift of a future filled with potential to those who knew only fear and so, she decided on what she had to do and where she had to go.

“Grandma, we shouldn’t be in a place like this,” her grandson, tall and handsome, muttered as he stepped out of the limousine and looked around warily. What had possessed his grandmother to want to come to an active warzone he could not imagine. What one of the richest women on the planet could want here of all places was beyond him. “This isn’t safe.” The old woman: wizened and bent with age waved his concerns away with a wrinkled hand.

“You are fortunate you don’t know an unsafe world. There are those who know it too well,” she scowled at her memories. “Wait here. I’ll be back.”

The girl would be there. Her security team had double-checked earlier in the day, so she wasn’t surprised when the girl hove into view, her back against one crumbling wall which had once been her home. The girl looked up, surprised and afraid, looking very much like a rabbit ready to run. She must have had that same look on her face so many years ago when Sgt. Paris found her, she thought to herself. The old woman smiled warmly at the child.

“It’s ok,” she said, her voice sounding far weaker than she remembered. “I have something for you. I won’t hurt you.” The girl stared at her wordlessly. Suspicion bloomed in her eyes, but she remained where she was. The old woman made her way cautiously through the wreckage until she stood in front of the girl. With hands shaking from age the woman handed over a small black notebook.

“What’s this?” The girl asked in a foreign tongue the old woman had learned for this occasion with no small amount of trouble.

“Just something from us to you,” the woman shrugged. Taking the worn army bag from her shoulder she lowered it down to the ground next to the girl and smiled again. “You must be hungry so eat slowly. Ok?”

“Wow!” The old woman heard the girl whisper. “A bunny!” The old woman had nearly reached the far end of the home when the girl’s voice came to her. “What’s your name?”

“Just call me…Paris,” the old woman said with a smile and nod of her head before turning to leave.