We flew through the backroads of France.

Hedges and fields, and flowers and fruits. Little villages dotted the countryside, and we’d catch glimpses of painted murals and stone architecture. The scents of freshly baked bread and coffee being roasted filled the wind. It was a land made for the senses.

The light was golden when I spotted a gap in the hedgerow we’d been following. Ayamin’s hands tightened around my waist as we turned into it.

We left tired little Henry parked in the corner of the field while the two of us eased ourselves underneath the hedge.

Once inside the branches formed a little cocoon over us. There was no wind, the sun had made the earth warm, it was almost like being under a blanket.

Ayamin opened our worn pack and pulled out a large square rag. She was smiling.

‘I don’t think there’s a better way to travel France than on the backroads on a little Vespa named Henry.’

She pulled out some plum jam, a pinch of butter, and Graeme’s scones and sat them on our little tablecloth.

‘Just for a minute,’ she said, ‘Can we appreciate how perfect this is.’

My stomach was growling, ‘Not many people would say that about eating scones under a hedge with a wanted criminal.’

Ayamin smiled as she spread the butter and jam over a slice, ‘Some might say you being on the run makes it a little more romantic.’

‘Oh yeah?’ I raised an eyebrow, ‘You know what else is romantic?’

‘What?’

‘Everything about you.’

I kissed her as she laughed. The scone was still in her hand and I got jam all over my cheek. She wiped it off with the edge of our rag-tablecloth.

We ate and we kissed and we ate some more. The dark arrived and Ayamin spread the blankets over us. The night was cold but we were warm.

****

We were in Paris in time for lunch, and what a lunch it was. Little Henry waited faithfully at the bakery we’d stopped at. Fresh croissants steamed in our hands as we wandered the streets, signs for Calis hung overhead, and the sun was out.

‘It almost seems surreal,’ Ayamin said, ‘We’re nearly there.’

‘Yeah,’ I shook my head, ‘Sometimes I wonder if I’ve dreamt the past five months.’

We walked in silence for a while, just taking it all in. At one point I closed my eyes and heard the slight rumble of traffic moving around, the clinking of glasses as café staff collected them, chatter in French, laughter, and the smells of good food, coffee, flowers, and the feel of a slight breeze on my skin.

We saw the Eifel tower. Ayamin posed in front of it and I pretended to take pictures of her. That’s the one moment where I really wished I still had my phone.

Her eyes and her smile seemed to shimmer with excitement and she couldn’t stop laughing.

‘Paris!’ she shouted, ‘Danny! We’re in Paris and this is the Eifel Tower.’

She did a little dance and then lept onto my back.

‘Onwards,’ she said, pointing to the Seine River.

We walked down the river through the centre of town and crossed a bridge where couples wrote their names on locks and attached them to the steel railing.

We stopped halfway along the bridge and breathed in. Ayamin’s eyes were still shining as she reached up and kissed me. I felt her waist pressed against me and her hair touching my face. She was smiling beneath her kiss.

It took us hours to walk to our final destination – the Notre Dame. But I savoured every moment. The twin tops of the white stone building stood far above us.

There were guided tours but we couldn’t afford them, instead, we wandered around the base of the building, touching the stone that had been worn smooth by thousands of hands before us.

We followed a group of tourists up a set of stairs. They laughed and shouted in their own languages and took pictures every two steps. The noise was so human and so happy and a little girl in pink shoes waved at us. Ayamin waved back.

The staircase led out onto a roof and the city spread out beneath us. The tourists had fallen silent, their cameras were in their pockets and the only sounds were the sounds of the city.

I looked to Ayamin. Her book was lying open in her hands – Teete’s red poppy almost shone between the white pages and black text.

Gently she held the poppy up, brought it to her lips and whispered a sentence to it. Her eyes shone, and her fingers trembled slightly as she kissed the flower and then released it off the edge.

The wind caught it, caressed it, and sent it spinning past brick walls, and art gallery, cafes, theatres, and crowds of other people.

We watched as it disappeared into the sunset. A little piece of red sent to join all the oranges, yellows, golds, and blues in the sky.