What Happens in Verdun

“Dear Diary, let me tell you another story of where I left my Pawprints…”

Early August 2013 was the kind of week where even happiness felt like it needed a risk assessment.

Pausy and Bumbly had been circling the same question for days—can I fit here?—while Plume tried to slip “bad idea” into every quiet moment. So they did the most practical romantic thing two anxious adults could do: they decided to run away from their own thoughts for a weekend.

Not far. Not flashy.

Verdun.

They went in Bumbly’s adapted van. Pausy drove with both hands firm on the wheel like steering could keep doubt from getting carsick. Bumbly navigated with a huge paper map spread across his lap—creased highways, tiny town names, old-school certainty. The toddler was strapped in the back, armed with snacks and the unshakable belief that all travel existed solely to provide new things to throw.

The eight-year-old stayed at Pausy’s ex. Stable. Familiar. One less variable.

A smaller orbit: just Pausy, the toddler, and Bumbly—plus Chase and his wife staying at the same small B&B. Chase was there as the quiet safety net: bedtime help, transfer support, zero daytime interference. He did the practical stuff without turning it into a performance, then vanished so the trip could still feel like theirs.

Verdun greeted them with damp stone air and a kind of silence that didn’t pretend to be peaceful—it was just old. The B&B was small, a little creaky, and not designed for wheels, but it was workable in the way most life became workable when Bumbly was involved: furniture nudged, turn radius cleared, bedside space negotiated like a diplomatic treaty.

The first day was sightseeing in spoon-sized pieces.

They rolled and walked through memorial paths that demanded respect. The world there felt slower. Even Pausy’s nervous system seemed to lower its shoulders a notch, as if the place itself told her, Stop sprinting. Look.

They stopped at viewpoints where the horizon looked deceptively normal—green, quiet, almost tender—until you remembered what the ground had held. Pausy pushed the stroller with that careful parent rhythm, occasionally glancing back to make sure Bumbly wasn’t battling a curb or a gravel patch alone. Bumbly kept the map open like a ritual, turning it slightly so she could see, his paw pinning a corner down.

That corner collected a faint smudge from his fur and road dust—a tiny pawprint-shaped mark that kept reappearing every time the fold tried to snap shut.

At a bakery, the toddler made a grabbing sound that was half command, half opera. Pausy bought something buttery and warm and handed it over with a smile that looked like relief. Bumbly watched her, the way her face softened when she let herself be a normal person instead of a vigilant one.

They talked in the van between stops. Not about Plume. Not about “the future.” They talked about dumb things: whether toddlers were secretly tiny kings, whether paper maps should make a comeback, whether the universe kept stealing socks as a hobby.

And still, the question followed them—not as panic, but as a quiet hum under the day.

That evening, Chase helped Bumbly with the bedtime logistics—efficient, respectful, no awkwardness. Then he and his wife disappeared to their own room, leaving the night to the three of them.

The toddler finally collapsed into sleep in a travel cot, cheeks warm, fists still clutching a toy like it was evidence for a court case. The room softened into lamplight and the hush that only comes when a child is finally down.

Pausy poured whisky into two small glasses. Bumbly’s had a straw, because that was simply how his world stayed comfortable. The paper map lay folded on the nightstand like a third character—quiet, smudged, dependable.

Pausy sat beside him on the bed, closer than she’d been all day. Her cardigan was off, her hair slightly messy from road wind and toddler hands. She smelled faintly of soap and warm fabric.

For a long moment they didn’t talk.

They didn’t need to.

Bumbly’s voice came out low. “We’re really here.”

Pausy gave a small laugh that sounded like she’d surprised herself. “We are.”

She leaned in—slow, deliberate—and kissed him the way someone kissed when they’d been holding their breath for weeks. Not frantic. Not performative. Just… honest. The kind of kiss that said, I’m choosing this, even if my brain is scared.

Bumbly’s chest warmed, the way it did when tenderness turned physical. He drew her closer as best he could, their bodies arranging themselves with the same quiet creativity they used for accessibility: a cushion shifted, a shoulder supported, a touch placed where it meant comfort.

They kept it gentle. Romantic. Safe.

And when Pausy’s laugh melted into a softer, breathier silence, Bumbly whispered the line like a vow and a joke at the same time:

“What happens in Verdun stays in Verdun.”

Pausy’s smile flashed in the lamplight—mischief and gratitude braided together—before the world faded into a private, consenting blur and the story politely closed the door.

The next morning, Verdun gave them the universe’s sense of humor.

Bumbly woke up to weight.

Not the emotional kind. The literal kind.

The toddler—apparently deciding that mornings required immediate contact—had escaped the travel cot and climbed onto the bed like a tiny, determined mountain goat. Before anyone could negotiate terms, the toddler plopped down squarely on Bumbly’s face.

Full sit.

No mercy.

Bumbly made a muffled sound that was half “help” and half “I have been defeated by a one-year-old.” His thumbs twitched uselessly in the air. His chair was across the room, like a loyal steed watching its rider get humbled.

Pausy snapped awake, saw the scene, and froze for a millisecond—horror, then realization, then laughter threatening to burst out at the worst possible time.

She scooped the toddler up fast, because safety first, and Bumbly sucked in air like a man resurfacing from the sea.

Pausy stared at him, trying to look apologetic, failing, and finally dissolving into a laugh that shook her shoulders.

Bumbly wheezed. “Your child just assassinated me with love.”

The toddler giggled like a tiny villain.

Pausy kissed Bumbly’s forehead—soft, quick—and murmured, “Welcome to my life.”

Later, they went out again—more sightseeing, slower routes, pauses for snacks, pauses for the toddler to point at pigeons like they were mythical beasts. Bumbly navigated with his map. Pausy drove. The smudged pawprint on the fold stayed put, as if the paper itself had decided to witness their attempt at bravery.

They didn’t solve every doubt that weekend. They didn’t erase fear. They didn’t magically uninstall Plume from the universe.

But they did something rarer.

They proved they could be a small team in unfamiliar territory—wheelchair, toddler, history, tenderness—and still find laughter.

Still find each other.

And when they drove home, Pausy’s hand briefly rested on Bumbly’s arm at a stoplight, as if to confirm: you’re still here.

Bumbly looked down at the map, at the faint pawprint smudge, and thought:

Maybe fitting wasn’t about perfection.

Maybe it was about choosing, again and again, to make space.