The next morning, Leo found a small folded note on his table when he woke up.
He opened it.
Marinette’s handwriting, as messy as usual, but the words were perfectly clear:
“I don’t know how to fix things that can’t be fixed.
But I do know how to make croissants.
That’s all I have today.
Marinette.”
Leo stared at the note for a long second.
Then he smiled without meaning to.
He went downstairs and found Marinette already there, wearing a large apron, her hands covered in flour, with an obvious mess of dough in front of her that had yet to take the proper shape.
“Good morning,” she said without looking up, trying to appear indifferent and failing miserably.
“Are you baking?” Leo asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Trying to.”
“By yourself?”
“…My dad is downstairs watching from a distance and trying not to interfere,” she finally admitted.
“It’s harder than it looks.”
Leo looked at the dough, which seemed closer to a small disaster than an actual croissant.
“I can see that.”
He sat beside her and, without asking whether she wanted help, began watching her movements with unusual focus.
“You don’t usually bake, do you?” Marinette asked as she tried to shape the dough into something that looked nothing like the crescent it was supposed to be.
“No.
But I’m good at noticing patterns,” Leo said.
“And you’ve repeated the same mistake three times in a row.”
Marinette stopped.
“You’re pressing too hard on the left side.
That makes the shape asymmetrical every time.”
She looked at him in confusion, then at the dough, and tried again, applying less pressure on the left.
The shape came out much closer to the correct form.
“How…
” she began, astonished.
“I told you.
Patterns,” Leo said with a proud smile.
“I don’t bake.
But I analyze everything, even without meaning to.”
Marinette laughed.
“A genius analyzing dough.
That’s a new one.”
“Genius doesn’t take vacations, Marinette.
Not even when it comes to croissants.”
After half an hour of shared attempts, some successful and most ending in more laughter than actual baking, a small batch finally came out of the oven.
Their shapes weren’t perfect, but they were perfectly edible.
Leo tasted one.
He chewed slowly, with exaggerated seriousness, as if he were judging a complex work of art.
“Well?” Marinette asked, her concern only partly feigned.
“It’s…” He paused for dramatic effect.
“Actually good.
Surprisingly good.”
“You weren’t expecting that?”
“I wasn’t sure the mess I saw would produce anything edible.”
She nudged him with her elbow as she laughed, but her eyes were still watching him with subtle caution—making sure the weight of yesterday was gone.
It wasn’t gone completely.
But it was much lighter. Enjoying the story? Read on at g.com.
Later that afternoon, as they walked together toward a small nearby library that Marinette had suggested visiting “to change the mood,” Leo overheard a brief conversation between Marinette and an acquaintance of hers on the street, a man who worked at an old clock shop.
Leo stopped.
He looked at the small shop behind the man.
Its display was filled with old metal parts, clocks, and delicate tools that seemed to have been collected from all over the world over many years.
A small idea began to take shape.
“Who was that?” Leo asked after the man had walked away.
“Mr.
Vernier,” Marinette replied.
“He owns a very old family shop.
He collects strange things sometimes—rare components, parts from old clocks, things he imports from all over the world.”
Leo stopped completely.
“Rare components,” he repeated slowly.
Marinette looked at him curiously.
“Why does that suddenly sound so important?”
Leo thought for a moment, weighing how much he wanted to reveal.
“Because I’ve been looking for something for weeks,” he finally said, choosing his words carefully.
“Something that’s difficult to find in Paris, apparently.
Maybe a man who collects strange things from all over the world could be a good place to start.”
She looked at him for a second, her curiosity clearly growing, but she didn’t press him any further.
“Do you want to go inside and ask?”
Leo looked at the shop.
Then at her.
“Yes,” he said with a smile that was beginning to regain its usual confidence.
“I think I do.”
End of Chapter Twenty-Three