It was a Tuesday morning at the Marché d'Aligre — the kind of morning that smells of fresh roses and warm bread, where the world moves gently and there is time enough for everything. Colette was arranging peonies at her favorite stall when Émile stopped, quite by accident, and asked if she could recommend the best bouquet for a grandmother's birthday.

She laughed — she still does at the memory — and said she could do better than recommend; she would make it herself. An hour passed. Then two. They forgot entirely about the grandmother. Four seasons, a thousand walks along the Seine, and one perfect September evening later, here we are.