She realized that that was what her father had been telling her, never to let that go or let the flame go out. Her mother had understood that better than he had.
“I knew that if I didn’t come back to see you, and let the chance go by, I’d regret it forever, and I’d think about it one day when I’m old and be sorry.” He smiled at her. “So I’m here. My scars are on the inside, and they’re no prettier than yours. Yours are more honest, because you can see them, you wear them like a badge of courage. I’ve been afraid to live again ever since that night in Paris.”
“So have I,” she admitted. “I thought my life ended in Brussels. I wanted it to. But it didn’t. Our punishment was that we had to live without them. We tried to bury ourselves too. You after Paris, and me after Brussels. Thank you for coming back,” she whispered to him, holding tightly to his hand. “You were brave to come back.”
“Thank you for being here.” He smiled at her. They were both present and alive, for the first time in over a year.
They had found life again in Africa. She was ready to go home and start living again. No matter how scarred inside and out, she was still beautiful. She saw it in his eyes, and she believed him. Just as he believed now that love had not died in Paris. It would come again. They had survived, and discovered in the end that life with all its beauty and tragedy and terror at times was worth living after all.
Life is beautiful, and nothing could change that, scars and all.