Seven years, three hundred and sixty-four days, twenty-three hours and fifty-eight minutes after my mother gave birth to me, I met Paul. Or, I should say, I met the man I occasionally called this way along the years I knew him. The first time I saw him, I thought he looked like Paul Newman playing Butch Cassidy, with his wavy blond hair and pale blue eyes. The first time I saw him, it was on a bus. The first time I saw him, it was in the middle of a fire.

A few minutes before my eighth birthday, I was sitting on a bus on my own, coming back home after my school day. We played soccer in the afternoon and, clumsy as I was, I fell and scratched my knee. It had bled a bit but I thought it was no big deal. I was not the kind of girl to cry for such a little thing — and I still am not. The bandaid the teacher insisted to put on the cut was beige, a shade darker than my skin and Care Bears were drawn on it, dancing in line as if they were supposed to make me forget that, under them, my flesh was being exposed to the world.

There I was, sitting on a stinky old ratty bus, Mrs. Finnegan, our neighbor, a little old lady nicer than anyone on this side of the earth, dozing off besides me. There I was, peeling my bandaid off my knee, meticulous as a clockmaker. The trinket hung on my school bag was brushing my thigh, making me shiver. It was one of those funny trolls with brightly colored hair. I hated it. I really despised its idiotic face and the only reason I kept it was because my dad gave it to me. Thinking about it now, it made me hate it even more. Every time I looked at the tiny monster, it reminded me that my mother and I were desperately alone at home. She always had that worried look on her face. Before leaving for the war, my dad promised me he would come back. I believed him. My mother didn’t.

The bus caught on fire. I didn’t know how at the time, I still don’t. People took their time to explain me that, sometimes, things happen and we don’t always know the reason. I didn’t care about the reasons it happened. I still don’t. It happened. Period.

I didn’t register what was going on at the time. I didn’t see people rushing towards the exits, I didn’t smell the smoke that was entering my lungs, I didn’t feel the heat of the flames on my face. Mrs Finnegan did not move either.

Then, I saw him. He was standing in the middle of the aisle, politely holding his hat in his hand. He looked round, calmly, as thought there weren’t any fire devouring the seats. I remember clearly hearing music, even though I didn’t know if it was all in my head or if he really brought that music with him when he entered the bus. I remembered hearing violin and other instruments I did not recognize at the time. Now that I did a bit of research, I know that it was the String Quartet in D minor, D 810 by Franz Schubert. To be honest, had I not had a sleepless night that particular day during my trip to London a few years ago and had I not watched that not particularly interesting Sherlock Holmes movie to pass time, I would have been stuck with the idea that this piece was only a figment of my imagination. I don’t know which one is the worst : to think I created it from scratch or to know I did not.

By the time he walked to my seat, I was already half-unconscious. Mrs. Finnegan was still immobile. The man did not pay any attention to her. He bent over and stared at me, his big blue eyes widening as time passed.

“Can you walk ?” he asked, in this deep, raspy voice that I am sure I will never forget.

What I don’t remember is if I actually answered or not. The world was twirling around me, the music playing in my ears louder and louder.

He put his coat around my shoulders as the cello went fortissimo and carried me to safety. The asphalt was cold under my legs and the water the firemen were pouring in vain on the burning carcass that was driving me home minutes before ran to us in a matter of seconds.

“What about Mrs. Finn?” I asked.

“As it is, she can wait a couple more minutes…”

He helped me get on my feet. His hands were huge on my tiny wrist and icy against my warm skin. As I stood, his heavy pea coat fell around my ankles and he knelt in front of me to put it back on my shoulders. He looked at me and I could see something in his eyes. Something between pity and what I could only define as guilt. He put a strand of my hair behind my ear and kissed my forehead.

“Happy birthday.”

He stood up and walked away. When I got home later that evening, I found my mother sitting in the kitchen, crying. In her hands, she was holding a neatly folded flag.

I met Paul several times since this event and I can say he is one of the only person I can call a friend. We don’t see each other very often, he seems to be a very busy man. But I know that anytime I need someone to talk to, he will be there. He was with me when I lost my mother, he held my hand for hours and hours after I had my first miscarriage. He congratulated me when I got my diploma. I don’t know who he is or where he comes from but I know that, if I ever need something, he will be there with me.

I have now a daughter who will be three in a month. She is a healthy little girl who inherited her father’s smile and I love them both. I work in a general hospital, in the palliative care unit. It is not the best paying job in the world but it is enough for my family and I.

I look at my watch. It is almost the end of my shift.

Before leaving, I grab some towels and head to Mr.Martin’s room. As I push the door, I catch a glimpse of a familiar silhouette. He is facing the bed, his hat politely held in his hand. I move backwards and shut the door. He gets out a minute later and smiles to me. Mr.Martin won't need any towels, it seems.

“Are you done?” I ask.

He nods. Then, he buttons up his coat and kisses me on the forehead. His hair tickles my ear and I squirm to fight against the shiver it sends down my spine. He puts his hat back on his head and turns his back to me. As he walks down the corridor, I stop him.

“Please, at least, tell me your name…”

He seems to hesitate, as if it was a really difficult question to answer.

“Some people call me Sam” he says as he disappears behind the fire doors.