A Mistaken Journey, A Just-Right Odyssey

Benedit’s apartment in Lyon was filled with the chatter of relatives and the aroma of coffee. I found him, settled behind his work desk in a sunlit sitting room, carefully writing on a sheet of thick, white rice paper. The bold, fluid lines of calligraphy captured my attention: a quote from "La Grande Étude"—the virtue, renewal, and goodness he so prized. He looked up, a flicker of warmth and sadness in his eyes. Our conversation skimmed from practical details to gentle teasing, but beneath the words, I sensed the finality of tomorrow’s ceremony. Benedit, dignified and tender, was moving on; I, his quiet shadow, prepared to say goodbye for good.

By early evening, determined not to overstay or draw out the farewell, I insisted on taking the night train back to Paris. Benedit raises an eyebrow—a hint of old concern—and offers to have someone drive me the next day, but I wave it off, citing work and the need for a clear head. Part of me suspects he sees through my excuses, as if he knows I cannot bear witnessing tomorrow’s ceremony in full. Once more, he dignified my boundary with a gentle smile. As dusk slips over Lyon, I step out into the autumn chill, my Chanel bag in hand and resolved only slightly steadier than my heart.

Navigating the tram and the flux of commuters, I soon reached Gare de Lyon-Part-Dieu. The station bustled, all steel, glass, and echoes—nothing like the cosy, wood-beamed stations in the countryside. I bought a ticket for the TGV to Paris-Gare de Lyon, double-checked the platform, and hauled myself and my suitcase aboard. I barely noticed the train’s gentle roll out of Lyon; fatigue and heartache pressed on my shoulders like a heavy blanket. I sat in stunned silence as the world rolled by, unsure if I was more lost in geography or feeling.

I told myself that sleep might bring some relief—perhaps by the time the train slid into Paris, everything would feel lighter. I closed my eyes to the muted announcements and the rhythmic sway, letting memories of Benedit’s laughter and the taste of Lyonnais pastries float up like persistent dreams.

When the carriage finally stilled and I opened my eyes, anticipation crashed against confusion. The platform sign outside read, not Paris, but Chalon-sur-Saône. Burgundy, not the capital—how had this happened? Panic fluttered in my chest. I flagged down a conductor with trembling French: "Excusez-moi, ce train va-t-il à Paris?" The young man shook his head kindly. "Non, mademoiselle. Train pour Dijon. Paris, c'était un autre quai."

There was no way back tonight. Only a stretch of fog, glowing streetlamps, and the empty platform of a town I’d only read about.

I should have been anxious—by all rights, stranded in Burgundy with barely enough cash for a night’s lodging and missing my class in Paris was a recipe for upset. But, oddly, the fog and solitude brought a strange sense of calm. I wrapped myself in my Prada jacket and found a weathered bench along the platform, listening to the departing trains sigh away from Chalon-sur-Saône.

That’s when I noticed another figure at the end of the bench: a young man, shivering in a raincoat, golden hair tangled by the damp and falling just to his shoulders. We exchanged uncertain, polite glances—a moment of kinship between two weary souls. My own hair—the deep, inky blackness of my French-Chinese roots—stood out in this foggy place, making his brightness seem even more unreal. His French was careful, tinged with an English accent. "Vous attendez quelqu'un?" I shook my head and replied in English.

We compared stories: William Fred, a doctoral student from Paris, had made the same blunder—his ticket meant for the capital, his destination upended by a split-second mix-up. The absurdity coaxed a helpless laugh out of both of us. After a brief, sincere assessment of our remaining euros, we agreed—practically and a little sheepishly—to share a modest room for the night at the small Hôtel des Voyageurs across from the station. The desk clerk didn’t bat an eye at our story, and in moments we were lying our travel-worn bodies down in parallel single beds.

The hush of passing trains floated through the hotel room, shrouding us in a kind of velvet night. William settled into his narrow bed with a sigh, and our voices dropped to the kind of hush reserved for secrets or prayer. We wandered down well-lit corridors of conversation—French paintings, tangled love stories, old hopes that felt almost superstitious. I confessed to the ache that spurred me from the city, the bittersweet escape from Benedit’s orbit. William, quiet and attentive. When he looked at me, I felt that there was something under his eyes.

“I need a shower,” I murmured. "William, If you want to use the bathroom first, just let me know." Old habits of politeness lingered between us, our boundaries thoughtfully drawn.

William waved off my offer with an easy smile. “Go ahead. You first.” In that simple gesture was a kind of grace, the small courtesies that make strangers into gentle company.

Hot water poured over me—a baptism from the cold and ache of travel. By the time I returned, skin warm and muscles softened, the fatigue had thinned into hunger and an odd lightness. The world, and tomorrow’s obligations, could wait. Wrapped in a thick towel, I folded my clothes with ritual neatness and slipped beneath the covers. The bed was small and freshly made—a rare luxury, as if the night itself wanted to cradle me. I let myself stretch, for once not worrying about appearances. Solitude could be beautiful.

William’s shower was a quiet symphony behind the door. But he was quick. Swiftly, he emerged swathed in a crisp shirt, shoulders broad, hair golden and damp. There was an effortless beauty in how he moved—awkward and graceful all at once, as if caught between youth and something gentler. He vanished into the other bed, the mattress sighing beneath him. For a moment, our burdens felt almost weightless.

“Good night," I said, letting my voice fall soft as a lullaby. “Good night," he replied, and the lights dimmed themselves in silent accord. "I'll return three and a half euros to you tomorrow," William said. "It's okay," I said. "So we are going back to Paris together tomorrow?" he asked. "Indeed," I said with a smiling face.

"Good night," I said.

"Good night," he said.

I turned over. Someone had opened the curtains. There was a crescent moon. What should I do? Tomorrow's class... I can retake the exam, right? I prepared for so long. I'm not too worried. I keep telling myself to forget, forget, count out a hundred, a thousand of Benedite’s flaws, but he was still he, the person I've loved since I was a child.

He finally got married.

Slowly and in absolute silence. My face was streaked with tears. I turned over and saw that William was sleeping in the bed next to me. He was staring blankly at me. He wasn't looking at me, it was just that I happened to turn my head, and I didn't have time to wipe away my tears.

William said softly, "Since it's over, it should be over." I smiled. "I know. My spirit is willing, but my flesh is weak." I let the tears fall. "Time heals all wounds," I said. William smiled again. "That line is from 'The Little Prince,' right? Time didn't heal his wounds; he lied.” He smiled. I looked at William—his golden hair splayed across the bedsheet, just brushing his shoulders. I asked, "How long have you been growing your hair?" “I cut it every half a year. But black hair is good. I love your black hair. It’s so striking—it makes you unique.” "If black hair is that long, it's like a ghost crawling out of a graveyard. Blonde hair is better," I said lightly. "But I suppose my half-French, half-Chinese genes determined this color." "Black hair is more suitable for a light, delicate style."

"Are you tired?" I asked. "Not really,” he said. "I mean, are you tired of daily life?" I asked. "Oh, yes, I'm often tired," he propped up her head with her hand. "Very tired, a kind of fatigue that sleep can't eliminate. I think death is natural, created by God, because living to a certain extent, you understand..."

We were silent for a while.

Then I said, "Good night." He also said, "Good night."

I closed my eyes. The blanket was probably freshly washed and had a pleasant scent. In the darkness, he reminded me that we'd better sleep early, as tomorrow we have to catch the 7:45 am train."I smiled at him and tried my best to fall asleep. I’d better fall asleep quickly, like a pig, or a piece of wood, sleeping soundly. But I heard William in the next bed get up. He wrapped himself in the blanket, walked over, squatted on the ground, and said to me, "You're crying."

I couldn't open my eyes. Everything was like a dream. Finally, I felt a soft, sticky finger trace across my cheek, William’s voice, "I'll wipe away your tears for you. The past is the past; the end is the end." I finally woke up, opened my eyes, and saw him leaning against my chest, hugging me. I asked in a hoarse voice, "Was I crying?" "You were crying, like a baby." "I had a nightmare," I said. He raised his head and said softly, "Yes, you had a nightmare, no doubt you had a nightmare. Now you're awake." I patted his head and said, "Sleep with me." he pulled back the blanket and lay down next to me. William was very warm. I often thought about having a warm body next to me, but I wasn't that kind of casual person, so I missed many opportunities. The people next to me had to be people I loved.

I fell asleep.

I must have slept for a long time, very comfortably, the sun on my face, the warmth radiating, wonderfully beautiful. I thought it must be noon. What a lovely weekend. Then, a series of images gathered in my mind. Weekend? I jumped up, looked at my watch: 1:45 PM!

I shouted, "Damn it!"

Someone laughed, "Damn it is damn it! But at least you slept very comfortably."

I looked at William. I laughed too, and simply lay back down on the bed.

"I called and booked the tickets, two second-class tickets; the train leaves at 2:15," William said.

"Thank you," I said.

"It's nothing. Years later, you'll remember sleeping well in a small hotel. You won't remember what important class you were rushing to." William told me.

"Yes," I said.

Then I washed my face, brushed my teeth, put on my clothes, and we came out, gazing at the sky. The clouds drifted lazily, and for a moment, time seemed to pause, wrapping us in a quiet, perfect stillness. We walked down the street. The sun was shining brightly, its golden rays shimmering. He was dressed warmly.

"Was I polite last night?” he asked.

"Very," I smiled.

He tugged at my hair. The road was adorned with yellow buttercup flowers. We picked a patch of grass, sat down, and waited for the train. He tilted her head to look at me. "You're a really good-looking girl, you are the most beautiful Chinese girl I have ever met." I asked in surprise, "Me?" He nodded. "You could get a little bit dressed up and. You are prettier than many girls." "Are you praising me? Teasing me?" I asked. "Praising you," he said. I put my arm around his shoulder.

The train arrived. This time we asked clearly before getting on the train, picked the best seats, and sat down. I leaned on William's shoulder. I said he was a good guy. We chatted aimlessly. Then the train started moving. William kissed my cheek. I quickly looked to see if anyone was watching. He laughed at my shyness. I playfully hit his head and face, and we ended up in a tangle. The train was moving. I was still holding his hand. He had several small silver rings on his fingers. I played with his rings. He took off one of them, the smallest, and put it on my middle finger. It was a knot, very unique. I waved my hand to see the ring under the light. I was happy.

The train was speeding along. I felt sleepy again. I pillowed on his arm and fell asleep. We were going to be on the train for several hours. I was already tired, really too tired. It was such a rare opportunity to feel safe.

Dawn found us standing on the platform, Paris' fog dissolving into indigo and pearl. I said goodbye and hugged him. He kissed me on my cheek. We promised to catch up in Paris, but we didn't exchange phone numbers. He turned and left the station to the south while I walked to the north. I slid the ring around my finger and let my sorrow for Benedict settle—no longer a raw wound, but a quiet ache, coexisting with gratitude for an unlikely companion. Sometimes, I realised, the wrong train delivers people to the right station—not home, perhaps, but to a place gentle enough to begin again.

Standing by the tall window, moonlight scattering over Parisian tiles and distant riverlights dancing through fine morning mist, I wrapped my arms around myself. Night-blooming jasmine and the lingering aroma of rain drifted up from the quiet street below. I rested my brow against the cool, old glass. Softly, clothed in the blue-gold hush of dawn, I mused, my voice a dancer threading silver across the stillness:

"Women are taught to follow the compass rose in our chests, sure of the secret maps we draw. Yet life, wilder than any legend, scatters us to unseen shores where our stories unfurl beneath unfamiliar stars, and the tides wash new names across our hearts. Life is an odyssey."

Elsewhere, in a cramped hotel bathroom in Paris, lemon cologne clinging to the whispering porcelain, William studied his morning-stubbled face in the water. The blade slid across his jaw with the assurance of ritual, channelled by sunlight angling through a dusty window. Steam rose like a prologue to the day. William’s voice, softer than his broad shoulders but no less firm, met his gaze in the glass, a smile flickering at the corners:

“Men chart their courses as if the world is clay within our hands, certain of how the rivers bend. Yet life, capricious as any ancient sea, shatters these designs and pulls us, time and again, toward distant harbors. So it is not the arrival but the undreamt journey that writes our fate. Life is not only a journey; it is an odyssey.”