His apartment was just as she expected. A trash of half completed oil paintings and empty wine bottles. The connection they both shared, the name Avogadro, was scrawled across Henri’s back wall in dripping purple paint.

Nicòle wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, ashamed at her tears. She sat down on a painted chair slowly, taking in her surroundings.
“You ‘av heard of him? Avogadro?”
“Yes Henri. I have this dream, where I am in a shop and I see a young girl with Avogadro written on her face and today,” Nicòle leaned forward and grapsed his hand. “I saw her and last night, I dreamt about you. I know we are all connected Henri.”
She tried to look into his eyes but his head was downcast. “Tell me, who is she?”

Henri stood, clearly frustrated. “I don’t know ‘er. I…don’t remember. I was hoping you could tell me,” his eyes filled with hope.
“Avogadro knew my father. They went to school together. He taught my father The Craft and my father taught me,” Nicòle explained.
Henri turned. “The Craft?”