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Julie wakes up at seven.

She lives in a small apartment near a quiet market.

In the kitchen, she makes coffee and eats a piece of toast with jam.

Her cat, Minou, sleeps on the chair.

Julie opens the window: it is nice out, the birds sing.

She smiles and reads a few pages of her book before leaving.

My grandmother has a very big garden behind her house.

There are many flowers of different colors: red roses, yellow tulips, and white daisies.

Every morning she goes out with water to water the plants.

She likes to sing while she works.

Sometimes a blue butterfly visits the flowers.

My grandmother says butterflies bring good luck.

I help her on Sundays and she teaches me the name of each plant.

The garden smells wonderful and it is my favorite place.

Last night, Léa and Thomas went into a small bistro near the Saône.

The waiter brought them the menu and they ordered a goat-cheese salad and pike quenelle.

For the main course they shared a board of local cold cuts.

"It's delicious," Thomas said.

They finished with a short espresso and a slice of pink praline tart.

A simple evening, but a memorable one.

Last Saturday I took the train from Paris to Lyon.

The journey lasted two hours.

I sat by the window and watched the landscape the whole way.

First I saw green fields with cows.

Then the terrain grew drier with olive trees.

An older woman in the seat next to me offered a clementine and we talked about our families.

When the train arrived in Lyon, the arrival made me happy because it was my first time in the city.

Saturday morning, Claire left Rennes by train toward the coast.

The sky was gray but the wind smelled of the sea.

On arrival, she rented a bike and followed a path along the cliff.

Seagulls cried above the rocks.

In a village she bought a buckwheat galette and sat on the harbor.

A fisherman explained that you had to respect the tide to get back at the right time.

Claire wrote down the hour and promised to return in spring.

Every Sunday, my grandmother makes an apple tart from a recipe her mother passed down.

That morning, while she was kneading the dough, she explained that the apples had to cook slowly so the sugar caramelizes without burning.

The smell filled the whole kitchen and drew neighbors who knocked "just to say hello." When the tart came out of the oven, we let it cool on the wooden table while she told how, long ago, the whole family gathered on Sunday afternoons.

I write down each step in a notebook so I do not forget these details.

Every Sunday, my grandmother makes an apple tart from a recipe her mother passed down. That morning, while she was kneading the dough, she explained that the apples had to cook slowly so the sugar caramelizes without burning. The smell filled the whole kitchen and drew neighbors who knocked "just to say hello." When the tart came out of the oven, we let it cool on the wooden table while she told how, long ago, the whole family gathered on Sunday afternoons. I write down each step in a notebook so I do not forget these details.

Along the Seine, the bouquinistes' green boxes line up like a garland of souvenirs.

That morning, as the city was barely waking, Antoine was leafing through a yellowed anthology when a customer insisted on a "reasonable" price.

He smiled: "A book isn't bric-a-brac, madam — it's a conversation you pick back up." She left without buying anything, but an amused passerby paid for the item without haggling, as if to support a tradition that not even the cold can quite discourage.

Along the Seine, the bouquinistes' green boxes line up like a garland of souvenirs. That morning, as the city was barely waking, Antoine was leafing through a yellowed anthology when a customer insisted on a "reasonable" price. He smiled: "A book isn't bric-a-brac, madam — it's a conversation you pick back up." She left without buying anything, but an amused passerby paid for the item without haggling, as if to support a tradition that not even the cold can quite discourage.

Under the century-old olive trees of the Cours Saleya, the stalls line up at dawn like a palette of colors.

That Sunday, as the city was slowly waking, Élodie listened to a vendor explain why flowering zucchini were worth more than they looked.

A tourist photographed every crate without buying anything; she offered a polite smile: "A market isn't a backdrop, sir — it's a conversation between the soil and your plate." He shrugged, but a student also paid for a bunch of basil, murmuring that people too easily underestimate the rituals that structure a week.

Élodie shook her hand: sometimes a few euros are enough to support a tradition that even tourism cannot quite flatten.

Under the century-old olive trees of the Cours Saleya, the stalls line up at dawn like a palette of colors. That Sunday, as the city was slowly waking, Élodie listened to a vendor explain why flowering zucchini were worth more than they looked. A tourist photographed every crate without buying anything; she offered a polite smile: "A market isn't a backdrop, sir — it's a conversation between the soil and your plate." He shrugged, but a student also paid for a bunch of basil, murmuring that people too easily underestimate the rituals that structure a week. Élodie shook her hand: sometimes a few euros are enough to support a tradition that even tourism cannot quite flatten.