Like any good story there has to be a good backdrop. One that everyone either knows or has ever visited. I'm about to change the well known into the unknown. This story takes place in the old southern part of my home. Where the honeysuckle runs wild, old plantation houses still reside, where exactly is this you ask? I could tell you but why not continue with my story and let you figure it out for yourself.

The sun was beating down upon us as the hours passed by slowly. I had glimpsed him last night while out on my own, wandering past the shops. The danger of course, I did not worry about, he was close and I knew it. The old roads had long ago since been paved and filled now with concrete. Cobble stone roads vanished as new, more smoother stone was covered driveways.

He knew my name, following in his gentlemenly style. With his hair neatly tied back in a fine piece of silk, his eyes intrigued me. The heartache that reached out, gripping my own soul. I knew of his loss, the tragic past that did not die as he had over 200 years ago. As I walked further along the busy sidewalks of my home, the magnolias in full bloom. Mengled with the honeysuckle and jasmine that over runs the ruined downtown homes. Stopping to view my favorite shop, his pace seems to disappear then return at my side. "Beautiful are they not?" his voice whispered close to my ear. Turning now, his emerald eyes look upon me with warmth as mine skim over him quickly then meet his in return. With a smile I say to him, "Oh yes they are splendid jewels of opal."

His face captured in youth, a gentlemen of his twenties, tall and his hair a dark brown that could easily flow to his shoulders. We walked in to this little shop, the man behind the counter smiled and welcomed us in. He was very taken with my handsome companion. As we looked around he kept watch over me like a father might do with their child. All the while he never pressed me for my name, although I knew that it was not necessary to say aloud. Before I could ask his though, he gave me a gentle squeeze on my arm. "Louis", he whispered in my ear, his southern accent seemed to be touched with a little French. We left the shop a little while later, brushing past the tourist with their heavy bags of belongings.

That night I will never forget. The story of course will go on, Louis my companion, father in silence and love of my thoughts.