Trinity Dawn's fascination with locks couldn't quite compare to the Pont des Arts’. She stood on the bridge with her Aunt Claire, barely able to see over or through all the metal latches to the water below. Each lock declared other people's hearts' contents: "Pippa + Marico," "A+Z," "Raf + Inda...."
Her aunt handed her a heart-shaped lock, no bigger than a postage stamp and said, "For when you find the One."
Trinity wondered if she'd ever grow up to have her own lock on that bridge. Her heart was big, but she was small, and she spent her life trying to figure out how to turn herself inside out.
Like the river under the Pont des Arts, nothing in Trinity's life stood still, and by the time she got back to the bridge alone in her thirties, finally accepting to love no One but herself, the locks were all gone. Her heart sunk to the bottom of the Seine, where she was about to throw the tiny key she always kept around her neck.
"You might still need that," said a petite stranger with glistening dark hair and sparkling eyes. When Trinity looked over, she knew she was right.