by Celso Antonio de Almeida

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Marcel’s cloth moved in small, precise circles, coaxing a shine from the leather beneath his hands. The morning bustle of the Boulevard du Temple swirled around him, a chaotic dance of horses, carriages, and hurried Parisians that contrasted sharply with his own stillness.

“You’re quiet today, Marcel,” Henri observed, peering down at the bootblack. “Troubles at home?”

Marcel’s hands paused for a moment before resuming their work. “Nothing out of the ordinary, Monsieur Beaumont. Just thinking about changes.”