The cobblestone streets of Montmartre shimmered faintly under a drizzle, reflecting the glow of wrought-iron streetlamps. Evelyn Moreau stood at the edge of the square, her striking blue eyes scanning the throng of buskers, painters, and tourists jostling for space beneath an overcast Parisian sky. Her white shirt, crisp and perfectly buttoned at the cuffs, contrasted sharply with the whimsical black-and-white polka-dotted leggings that clung to her legs. She seemed oddly out of place, or perhaps too perfectly placed—like a muse who had stepped out of a painter’s easel, only to find herself in the wrong century.
Her blonde hair cascaded in soft waves over her shoulders, loose, untamed, and golden against the moody gray of the afternoon. A single silver locket hung around her neck, catching the faintest beams of light whenever she moved—a movement that was purposeful, fluid, like the still point in a city that never stopped swirling.
Today wasn’t the day for aimless wandering, not with her quarry so close. Evelyn pulled her phone from the pocket of the long beige trench coat draped over her shoulders. The screen lit up, revealing a single message from an unknown number. It simply read, “You’re late.”
The Meeting
The café on Rue des Abbesses was exactly as the message had described—cozy yet grand, with velvet drapes and mirrors tarnished by years of cigarette smoke and whispered secrets. When Evelyn stepped inside, every head turned. Her sharp elegance, coupled with the playful eccentricity of her outfit, made her unforgettable. Even the bored waiter froze for a moment, watching her cross the floor before she sank gracefully into the booth in the far left corner.
A man was already seated across from her, his face cloaked in shadow. “You came alone,” he stated coolly, though his tone was more observation than accusation.
“As instructed,” Evelyn replied, smoothing a crease on her polka-dotted leggings. Her French accent was faint but noticeable—each word precise, calculated.
The man leaned forward, the dim light revealing a scar that ran the length of his cheek. “Do you have it?”
“You mean this?” she asked, slipping the silver locket off her neck with a surreal kind of nonchalance. She dangled it between her fingers, letting it catch the pale light. The air between them grew taut.
“You can’t begin to understand its value,” the man hissed, reaching for it.
“Oh, I understand perfectly,” Evelyn replied, pulling it back just in time. “But you haven’t upheld your end of the deal, Monsieur Marchand.”
A Stolen Past
Marchand gave her a look that could split a stone. “The painting you seek no longer exists,” he said at last. “It was destroyed during the Blitz. Reduced to ash.”
Evelyn’s composure faltered, just for a moment. “You’re lying.”
The fire in her eyes blazed so brightly it almost masked the despair threatening to smother her. She had spent six years chasing that painting—a strange, out-of-place piece from the 19th century that had somehow depicted her likeness. Six years of tracing crooked leads and forking over fortunes, trying to piece together how a woman in polka-dotted leggings and a white shirt could stare back at her from an era she didn’t belong to.
“I don’t lie about what’s gone, Ms. Moreau,” he said, his voice low but firm. “You may continue your search, but I promise, it will lead you to a dead end. Now, the locket.”
Evelyn slipped the locket into her coat pocket. “If the painting is gone, our business is concluded.” With that, she rose, her trench coat swirling behind her. The click of her boots on the tiled floor echoed as she walked away.
The Reveal
Outside, Evelyn tilted her face up to the drizzle. She clutched the silver locket tightly, her pulse racing as it always did before one of her “episodes.” When she opened her eyes again, the rain had stopped. Not because the storm had passed, but because the world around her had shifted.
The cobblestones beneath her feet gleamed unnaturally, their surfaces metallic and shimmering. The Eiffel Tower loomed in the distance, now an intricate web of neon and glass, stretching impossibly high into a purple-drenched sky. People passed her in sleek, futuristic outfits—silver bodysuits and transparent capes—yet no one spared her more than a glance.
Evelyn stared down at her reflection in a puddle. The polka-dotted leggings, the white shirt—all still there. But they didn’t belong here, in whatever strange time or place she had stumbled into. Or been pulled into.
Her phone buzzed. Another unknown message: “Come to the tower. It’s waiting for you.”
Smoothing her blonde hair and straightening her coat, she set off toward the glowing tower, her heart pounding with both fear and exhilaration. Whatever she was chasing—whether it was a painting, a truth, or herself—she knew the locket was the key. And she wasn’t done yet.
The Source…check out the great article that inspired this amazing short story: White Shirt and Black-and-White Polka-Dotted Leggings: Modern Vintage Cosplay Inspiration with Effortless Chic Style
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