It’s not Marie.

This young man was twice her size, a walking geometry problem composed of long parallel lines and spare angles. Well-worn hiking boots encased his large feet, and a dusty pack perched on his back.

Flight or fight? I wondered, as he approached.

“Excuse me,” he said. His French carried an American accent. “Does this old place have a name?”

Perhaps he was what he seemed, a backpacker seeing France. “I don’t know,” I said, while staring at his backpack.

“Everyone comments on the rose,” he laughed. “It looks like the one embroidered on my blanket when I was found as a baby. It’s the shade of first dawn, a promise. I want to hope everything I do is stitched with its color.”

I smiled politely, but a warning bell clamored in my brain.
The pink rose had been our network’s symbol.

For dVerse Prosery. I’m continuing my series, beginning again with the last line of the previous episode. The prompt line is “Everything I do is stitched with its color” by
W.S. Merwin. from his poem “Separation.” Lisa has chosen such a beautiful line.