I continued to stand by the Seine every day. It calmed me. Grounded me. The river always moved forward — with purpose.
Then came December 10th. A night I’ll never forget.
It was winter. I wore my usual long black coat — but this time, I used pomade and cologne. I tried to look my best, though I was nervous.
Paris was glowing. Christmas lights danced from lampposts. Music drifted from shop radios — and I’ll never forget the song that played “Have yourself a merry little Christmas…”
And then I saw her. She was walking toward me — red dress, matching hat, wearing the earrings I gave her. Her smile was warm. Her eyes confused — because I stood frozen, breathless, just staring at her beauty.
She tapped my shoulder and teased, “Beau, my darling, why are you standing still?” She looked at the crowded restaurant and added, “Let’s walk and find somewhere to eat.”
Then she grabbed my hand — playfully, gently — and said, “Go on, darling. One foot in front of the other.” Like she was teaching a baby to walk. She was teasing. That made her even more irresistible.
I pulled her close by the waist and whispered, “Cassandra… let’s stay here for a while.”
I asked what she thought of the Seine.
She replied, “It’s beautiful. I never really thought deeply about it. But now that you ask… there’s something in it that makes you feel calm.”
Then she added, “You’re not feeling down again, are you? Like the day we met?”
“Far from it,” I said. And then I began.
“Cassandra… When you first saw me standing here, I was lost. Discouraged. My thoughts were heavy with despair. I came to the river because it moved forward — never pausing, never turning back. It gave me hope. And then I met you. And on that day, I knew I had a future. You were that hope. That light. And I know… God heard my suffering and gave me you.”
I pulled out a small box. Her eyes filled with tears. So did mine.
“Cassandra, I don’t have vast land, but I can give you a decent home. I don’t have a fancy automobile, but I’ll take you wherever you need to go. I will protect you. I will provide. And most of all — whatever happens — I will never leave your side.”
She stood smiling. My heart raced. Why wasn’t she answering yet?
Then she laughed softly, “Aren’t you supposed to ask me something, silly?”
And I said, “Cassandra, will you marry me?”
She said yes. She hugged me, whispered in my ear, “I will hold you to that promise.”
A few months later, we became Mr. and Mrs. Beau Moreau. Standing at the altar, promising to love each other to the end.
Her Voice
One Year Before the Present
I was standing by the Seine. It was night. I couldn’t bring myself to go home. My heart was heavy.
I stared at the river — like Beau used to. And I remembered what he said: That the Seine flows in one direction. That it brings peace, because it leads toward hope.
Then I remembered December 10th, 1952.
A week before that night, Beau told me we had an event. He sent me a red dress. A matching red hat. It was elegant — something you wear to a grand evening.
On the day itself, I dressed with care. I used the red lipstick my mother gave me, the one I’d been saving. When I saw myself in the mirror, I paused. “I look… beautiful.” I hadn’t said that in a long time.
That evening, Christmas was everywhere — Lights shimmered. Music floated. “Have yourself a merry little Christmas…” played in the background.
And there he was. Handsome in his long black coat, staring at the river like the first time I saw him.
His eyes — steady, deep, full of meaning.
He didn’t speak at first. So I playfully said, “What are you staring at, my darling?”
We laughed about the restaurant being full. I grabbed his hand and teased him forward.
But then he stopped me.
We stood by the river.
And he said words I will never forget.
“Cassandra… I do not have vast land, but I can give you a decent home. I do not have a fine automobile, but I will bring you wherever you need to go. I will protect you and our children…” (I giggled when he said ‘children’) “I will provide. And no matter what happens — I will never leave your side.”
He said the river moves forward — and that’s how he saw our future.
I hugged him. I told him: “I’ll hold you to that promise.”
And he kept it.
We married. Built a family. Our children are grown now. They visit often. We had a good life.
Beau gave me everything he said he would. A home. A safe place. A hand to hold through storms.
But not today.
Tonight, I stand alone by the Seine. I haven’t told him yet. But like the river, I, too, must move in one direction.
Soon, I’ll be going where he cannot follow — not yet.
Still… I feel peace.
Because I know that God will keep Beau, our children, and our grandchildren in His care.
And someday, I’ll meet Beau again. In a new home. Where rivers don’t end. Where love remembers everything.
There was a man standing on the bridge of the Seine River. Even from afar, he stood out — calm, certain, a quiet sort of strength. He wore a long black coat, and when I passed him, I caught a glimpse of his eyes — gray, like a storm that had long passed, but left the sky changed forever. He smiled. It was sincere. And somehow, it stilled the night.
It was drizzling. Paris was dim but alive — the glow of lampposts, the hum of soft saxophone from a nearby café, the sound of heels echoing across wet cobblestones.
“I see you here often,” I said. “Always staring at the river.”
He turned, voice steady and low: “Because it’s peaceful,” he said. “It doesn’t rage or retreat. It flows in one direction — forward. Not clinging to the past. Not stopping to dwell in despair. Just moving. Toward hope. Toward healing. Toward a God who never leaves, even in the rain. Even in the waiting.”
I blinked back tears. He looked tired — not the kind you sleep off, but the kind you live through. Still, he carried hope like a lantern. So I stood beside him. No more words were shared. We just listened — to the rain, to the saxophone, to the people laughing as they passed, and to the river — steady, certain, flowing.
Paris, Present Day — His Voice
I am older now. The bridge has aged, and so have I. But I still come here — to the Seine.
I used to stand here alone. A soldier without war. A man without reason. But somehow, in the middle of my unraveling, I found love. I didn’t come for it. I didn’t expect it. But God is like that — quiet, surprising, faithful.
I remember her — young, bright, full of life. But not when we first met. That night, she found me broken. And instead of walking away, she stood beside me. She just stayed. And in that silence, I began to heal.
I told her why I watched the river. How life had hurt me. How I no longer believed in rising. And somehow, she made me believe again.
Now I come here not for solace — but gratitude.
The Seine still flows — forward, steady, full of grace. And though she’s gone now, I know where it leads.
Because the river moves in one direction. And so do I — toward the day I’ll see her again.
An Unfiltered Monologue from the Man Who Walked on Water (for a Few Seconds)
🎤 Camera fades in. A fisherman’s hands. A worn net. And a voice — familiar, grounded, rough around the edges.
You know, people talk about faith like it’s easy. But I’ve lived it. Or at least… I’ve tried to.
I’m Peter. Yeah, that Peter. The one who walked on water — and almost drowned doing it. But let me start from the beginning.
One morning, I was casting my net—tired, frustrated, nothing biting. I’d been at it all night. Then this man shows up and tells me,
“Cast your net again.”
(Luke 5:4)
And I said,
“Master, we’ve worked hard all night and haven’t caught anything.”
But… alright. What’s one more throw?
Next thing I know, the net is breaking from the weight of the fish. That’s when I realized: this isn’t just a man. And then He said,
“Follow Me, and I’ll make you fishers of men.”
(Matthew 4:19)
So I dropped my net. And everything changed.
We went from town to town — me, Him, the rest of the gang. I watched Him open blind eyes, heal lepers, raise the dead, and feed thousands with just five loaves and two fish.
(Matthew 14:13–21)
And the leftovers? More than what we started with.
He taught crowds, but He also sat with sinners. He didn’t avoid mess — He stepped right into it.
One time, we were out at sea. The wind was howling, the waves slapping the boat, and suddenly—
someone points and yells, “It’s a ghost!”
Nope. It was Him.
Walking on water. Like it was dry land.
He looked right at me and said,
“Come.”
(Matthew 14:29)
So I did. Stepped right out of the boat. For a second, I was doing it. Walking on water. But then I saw the wind… heard the thunder…
and I sank. Just like that.
He caught me, of course. Pulled me back up.
“Oh you of little faith, why did you doubt?”
(Matthew 14:31)
Good question.
Later, He looked me in the eye and said,
“You are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church.”
(Matthew 16:18)
Me. A guy who panicked in a storm and talks too much when he’s nervous.
He wasn’t like anyone we knew. He confused the powerful — they couldn’t trap Him. They asked,
“Should we pay taxes to Caesar?”
And He said,
“Give to Caesar what is Caesar’s, and to God what is God’s.”
(Matthew 22:21)
We all just… shut up. What could we say?
But you wanna know what shook me apart from the miracles? It was His compassion.
There was this woman — been bleeding for twelve years. Doctors couldn’t help her. She touched the hem of His robe — just the hem — and she was healed.
He turned and said, “Daughter, your faith has made you well.”
(Mark 5:25–34)
And then there was that time He walked into the temple and flipped the tables.
Yeah. Flipped them.
Because they turned a house of prayer into a night market.
(Matthew 21:12–13)
Even His anger felt… holy.
But the high officials? They didn’t like Him. So they plotted. They came for Him at night. I tried to fight back — chopped off a guy’s ear.
(John 18:10)
He healed it. Told me,
“Put your sword away. Those who live by the sword will die by it.”
(Matthew 26:52)
And then… the part I don’t like talking about.
I followed from a distance. People recognized me.
“Weren’t you with Him?”
“No.”
“I saw you.”
“No, I swear I wasn’t.”
Three times I denied Him.
(Luke 22:54–62)
And then the rooster crowed. Just like He said it would.
I broke.
He was beaten. Crucified. And even then, He prayed:
“Father, forgive them. They know not what they do.”
(Luke 23:34)
He told a dying thief,
“Today, you’ll be with Me in paradise.”
(Luke 23:43)
And on the third day —
He rose.
(Matthew 28:1–10)
Alive. Glorious. Gentle. Still forgiving.
He even made me breakfast. Told me to feed His sheep.
(John 21:15–17)
It was His way of saying, “You’re still mine.”
I’ve seen the sea open.
I’ve also seen myself sink.
But faith isn’t about perfection. It’s about focus.
It’s not about never doubting — it’s about who you run to when you do.
And if you ever feel like you’re drowning —
look up.
He’s already in the water
Oh, and before I go —
For those of you who don’t know His name… it starts with a J if you’re speaking English, an H if you’re from some parts of Asia or Latin America, and a Y if you’re reading Hebrew.
But no matter the language — it’s still the name that calms storms.
So, I hope to see you in a very, very very long time.
But in the meantime?
Keep the faith.
So He won’t have to look at you the way He looked at me and say,
“Oh you of little faith.”
(Matthew 14:31)
PS:“That rooster line still stings. But the grace? Unforgettable.” 🐓🔥
Some people are afraid of the storm… and the aftermath it brings. But I am not.
I don’t see the thunder as a threat — I see it as a sign to rise. The crack of lightning? It doesn’t scare me. It wakes me. It’s not shouting at me to hide — it’s calling me to move.
This is your queue to go forth and do the thing that scares you the most.
Because in life, you can’t stop the storm. You will have to face it. And if you must walk through it, Then walk like you own the road.
Stand in the middle of the storm, on the battlefield of fear, Look it dead in the eye and say— “I’m not afraid of you… Because The Shepherd is walking with me.”
She wasn’t just dreaming of the skies — she belonged to them. This sepia-toned portrait captures the spirit of a woman born out of time: a would-be pilot with the fire of the present and the soul of the past. In another life, she walks the tarmac in uniform — not for glamour, but for duty. Calm eyes, steady heart. A cross on her chest, purpose in her bones. Somewhere behind her, a war might be raging. But inside her, there is resolve. This is the version of her that chooses honor over ease, and jazz halls over earbuds. The kind of woman who would trade the noise of the now for a quiet night in 1950s velvet, arm-in-arm with someone who sees her.
Because while the world chases speed, she still dreams of propellers and handwritten letters.
Ember - Fire and Soul 