My shop bears the gentle name Marguerite, echo of a woman small in stature, immense in heart. My grandmother taught me to love what doesn’t shine, the silences that speak, the gestures that remain.

She lived through the war. Not hunger  the farm protected her family  but other kinds of deprivation. The Germans stole her bicycle. And yet, Marguerite never let bitterness take root. She walked on, with quiet dignity that never bent.

My grandmother Marguerite moved through the seasons like one walks through morning dew: courage at her fingertips, humility in her soles. Her hands sank into the soil, her gaze followed faith like a beam of light. As a young girl, she worked the land, and the aches buried in her bones told that story for years.

Each Sunday, my grandmother went to mass, exquisitely elegant in her simplicity, with a calm and steady step. Her shawl neatly folded, her jewelry discreet, she walked as one honors a ritual, with the grace of those who understand the value of silence.

She spoke to me of old customs, like passing down a song whose words warm the soul.

As a child, I ran through the village  faster, to reach her sooner  between the two bell towers that rang for communions, heading toward the house with its door always open: for family, for friends, for the postman, for the milk. It was Marguerite’s house, where every corner whispered a memory.

 Nights under the eiderdown were expeditions, flattened like a crêpe beneath a sea of duvet, and under the bed, a secret world: dried linden flowers, dog-eared books, forgotten healing plants, a voiceless violin… an inventory of dreams.

In my grandmother Marguerite’s bedroom, treasures slept in gentle disarray: jewels with timid sparkle, elegant hats, silent dresses. The scent of coffee drifted like a whisper, while my grandfather shaved slowly, facing the barber’s mirror, and the grandfather clock beat the heart of happy days.

Wednesdays were sacred. The Aronde carried the whole family to homes full of life. Sometimes to couturiers, where fabric hummed beneath the needles, sometimes to my grandfather’s friends, in modest workshops or hushed parlors, where warmth arrived without noise. I, curious, listened to silence embroider its secrets.

It was in those outings, between steaming coffee and handshakes, that I learned to recognize beauty in what cannot be explained.

Today, my mother watches over this memory as one tends a fragile flame, and I, through this shop, make Marguerite’s memories dance  among chosen objects, whispered phrases, and glimmers of the past.

In every detail, there’s a breath of her: her light, her modesty, her tenderness.

 My grandmother is all that, and so much more. A hand-stitched story still blooming in the drawers of the heart. A memory woven with courage, silence, and love  even in days stolen by war.