The crisp autumn air settled gently over Bree as dawn broke on a cool October morning. Mist curled around the ancient cobblestones of the Markt—Bree’s historic market square—where centuries-old gabled houses and the imposing Sint-Michielskerk stood sentinel against the pale light. It was here that Fleur Van den Broek, a young woman of twenty-eight, arrived on the early bus from Hasselt. Her auburn hair caught the dim glow of the rising sun, and her hazel eyes took in every detail of the familiar surroundings: the wrought-iron street lamps, the faded frescoes on the old city hall’s façade, and the faint scent of damp oak from the nearby Beverbeek Nature Reserve.
Fleur had returned to Bree after five years in Leuven, where she had completed her studies in philosophy and cultural anthropology. Since gaining her master’s degree, she had travelled extensively—studying folk traditions in the Ardennes, volunteering with an intercultural project in Brussels, and even spending a season in the Basque Country learning about its ancient dances and rituals. Yet, each time she ventured beyond Belgium’s borders, she felt a tug at her heart, pulling her back to the gentle hills and heathlands of Limburg. Bree, with its quiet charm, seemed to call her home.
That morning, Fleur walked down the narrow, winding street known as Hoogstraat, headed towards De Blomme, a small café renowned for its Het Kempisch ontbijt—thick slices of wholegrain bread topped with local cheese, accompanied by a steaming cup of Chimay coffee. The scent of freshly baked vlaai—Bree’s famous fruit tart—wafted from the pastry window, mingling with the rustle of dry leaves tumbling along the pavement. She paused to watch a sparrow peck at crumbs near a wicker basket left outside a florist’s, her serene expression reflecting the kindness she felt towards the smallest of creatures.
Inside De Blomme, the walls were adorned with sepia-toned photographs: the 15th-century city gates, the old horse fair (Paardenmarkt), and snapshots of the annual Carnival (Vastenavond) celebrations, where locals donned elaborate papier-mâché masks and danced through the streets. Fleur greeted the elderly proprietor, Monsieur Carl, who greeted her with a nod and began assembling her usual order: koffie verkeerd and a slice of ginger-spiced pumpkin vlaai, a local seasonal speciality.
She settled at a round oak table by the window, reviewing her journal as she took sip after sip of the luke-warm coffee. Fleur wanted to reconnect with Bree’s residents and record oral histories of local traditions—the whispered legends of the oude heksenfeesten (old witch festivals) that once took place on the moonlit moors of Melickerheide, the tales of cross-border smuggling along the Dutch frontier during the Second World War, and the ritual blessings given at the Chapel of Our Lady of the Trees (Onze-Lieve-Vrouwe ter Bomen) each May. This project, she decided, would be her next endeavour: a book weaving together history, folklore, and the resilience of rural communities.
As she worked, the café’s door opened to admit a tall figure: a young man in his early thirties, slightly dishevelled yet strikingly handsome, dressed in a charcoal-grey jacket and dark denim. His name was Louis Verlinden, a heritage architect who had recently returned to Bree to take up a post restoring medieval farmsteads and chapels scattered across the Kempen region. His dark hair curled at the nape of his neck, and his slate-grey eyes held a depth of quiet intensity. He moved with a sort of effortless grace, though the slight limp in his left leg, the result of a cycling accident the previous summer, lent him a hint of vulnerability.
Louis ordered a koffie crème and a broodje kroket, then scanned the café for an empty seat. His gaze alighted on Fleur, who raised an eyebrow in polite acknowledgement. With a tentative half-smile, he asked in Flemish-hinted English, “Mind if I join you?”
Fleur closed her journal and gestured to the chair across from her. “Please do,” she replied softly. Her voice was warm, modulated, carrying a sense of calm wisdom beyond her years. Several townsfolk would later remark how it was impossible to feel rushed or uneasy in her presence, as though her very aura radiated tranquillity.
Louis retrieved a leather-bound sketchbook from an inside pocket and placed it on the table. “I’ve passed your window a few times since I moved back,” he admitted, shifting uncomfortably. “It looked as though you were working on something important.”
Fleur tucked a curl behind her ear. “I’m gathering memories—stories of Bree. I’m hoping to capture what makes this place special: its people, the folklore, and the echoes of history that still linger.” She smiled, her gaze steadfast yet inviting. “And who might you be?”
“Louis Verlinden,” he paused, pronouncing his name carefully, as though unsure whether she would understand the stressed syllables. “I’m an architect. I moved here to work for the provincial heritage office.” The limp became apparent as he leaned forward. “I had a bike accident last July—fractured tibia. My aunt lives here, and she insisted I recover close by.”
Fleur’s expression softened. “I’m sorry to hear that. But it’s good you’re here now. Bree needs people who care about its past—its buildings tell stories, too.”
Their conversation drifted seamlessly from that point—through descriptions of local architecture (the pleisterhuidboerderij, with its white-plastered farmhouse walls), discussions of Flemish Expressionist painters who had once sought inspiration in the Kempen’s flat horizon, to musings on the leaving of flowers at the gated entrance of the old horse fairground in memory of the animals. As they spoke, they discovered shared affinities: a love for literature—both reciting lines from Guido Gezelle and discussing the works of Alice Nahon—an appreciation for the unique cadence of Limburgish dialect, and a mutual belief in respecting tradition while allowing for gentle innovation.
When Monsieur Carl brought their plates—a perfect slice of golden vlaai dusted with powdered sugar for Fleur, a freshly fried kroket on pillowy bread for Louis—they lingered over lunch, neither keen to break the conversation’s current. Outside, the leaves along Marketstraat had turned a burnished copper and gold. A stray breeze carried the faint chime of the Sint-Michielskerk’s clocktower, its bells tolling the hour. Louis glanced at his watch and grimaced slightly. “I have to oversee the renovations at the 17th-century Kasteelhoeve Mechelschehof this afternoon,” he said. “But I’d love to continue this discussion—perhaps over a walk through the Kiafheide woods? The trails there are beautiful right now.”
Fleur’s eyes brightened. “I’d like that. I’ve been meaning to visit Kiafheide—I’ve heard tales of the woodland sprites that some villagers still swear haunt the old oak near the glade.” She packed away her journal into a leather satchel. “Say… meet me here in an hour? I want to stop by the Tourism Centre first to see if they have any old maps I could examine.”
“And I’ll fetch my coat from Aunt Marieke’s,” Louis added. He smiled as he followed Fleur out of De Blomme, pausing briefly to promise, “Same place, then.”
When Fleur arrived at the Tourism Centre on Grote Steenweg, she was greeted by Madame Smeets, the matronly archivist who ran the local heritage office. She unrolled an aged cartographic map dating from the late 18th century—the year 1789 scrawled in the lower corner. “This one’s particularly dear to me,” Madame Smeets said, tracing the border between Belgium and the Dutch Republic, a hand-drawn line that had shifted only fleetingly over wars and treaties. “You can see how the Melickerheide was once mostly heath, frequented by hunters and travellers. These days, it’s mostly forested, but some say you can still glimpse the old footpaths that smugglers used to bring tobacco and lace from Maastricht.”
Fleur made careful notes, stepping into the faint scent of cedar from the map cabinet, and tucked photocopies of the creased sheet into her satchel. When she emerged, pale afternoon sun danced across the stained-glass windows of Sint-Michielskerk—rich blues and garnets casting kaleidoscopic patterns across the flagstone floor. She bowed her head in silent reverence before stepping outside, turning her face towards the sky, inhaling the crisp air.
An hour later, Louis joined her beneath the ornate canopy of the church’s gabled entrance. He wore a tweed overcoat, the colour of aged parchment, and carried a small leather satchel. “Shall we?” he asked.
They set off along the trail leading from the churchyard towards Kiafheide. The path was carpeted in cinnamon-hued leaves, and shafts of golden light pierced the canopy overhead. Here and there, small clusters of chanterelle mushrooms sprouted beside fallen logs, and the distant cry of a jay echoed among the trees. Louis paused to steady himself on a gnarled root protruding from the earth, and Fleur offered him her hand. He took it gratefully, and her gentle touch seemed to reassure him.
They walked in companionable silence for a while, their footsteps soft against the forest floor. The two began to share fragments of their pasts. Fleur spoke of her childhood in the nearby village of Opglabbeek, where she’d spent summer afternoons playing in her grandparents’ orchard, learning from her grandfather—the village schoolmaster—how each local oral tale carried the kernel of history. “He’d tell me about the Spanish troops who once camped here during the Eighty Years’ War,” she said. “How they left behind shards of broken pottery that villagers later used as mosaic tiles for the local chapel’s floor.”
Louis, in turn, described the years he’d spent in Antwerp studying architectural conservation. “I learned to trace the patterns of age—how cracks form in brick during the frost, how the mortar between stones can tell you a building’s every winter and summer for the past two centuries.” He smiled wryly. “And yet my liking for all things old sometimes made me blind to the new—my family thought me dour. It wasn’t until I took that bike trip along the Maas earlier this year that I realised there could be beauty in the unexpected: in a sudden wildflower growing between two cobblestones or in a modern glass extension sitting alongside a 15th-century façade.”
Fleur listened with rapt attention. “I think history is like a conversation between past and present,” she observed. “We give voice to those who came before, yet we also bring our own truth to the story.”
Louis regarded her profile—her brow slightly furrowed as she spoke, eyes alight with quiet fervour. “You have a gift for words,” he said. “Most people, when I talk about mortar and brick, begin to nod off. But you… you see the poetry behind it.”
Fleur’s cheeks flushed, and she shook her head. “Perhaps it’s your way of explaining it that makes it alive.” She brushed a stray curl from her face. “Tell me, Louis—why return to Bree? You had opportunities in Antwerp, Brussels, even Utrecht.”
He paused at a fork in the trail, the path splitting towards a small pond before looping back towards the forest’s heart. “After the accident, lying in that hospital bed in Turnhout, I realised my Uncle Bram was right—I missed this land. Everything here breathes differently. The rhythms of life—planting crops in the spring, celebrating Vastenavond, the solemnity of All Saints’ Day—teach me what it means to be rooted.”
Fleur nodded as though understanding more than the words themselves. “I think the land chooses us as much as we choose it,” she said. “Come, let’s follow this way. The oaks open into a clearing soon, where the old hunting lodge once stood. The stories say it belonged to the baron of Peer and was burned down during the War of the Austrian Succession.”
Louis exhaled slowly, as though committing that image to memory: the baron’s hunting lodge ablaze, wood crackling, shadows dancing in the forest. That image, too, seemed a part of him now, woven into the history he had come to preserve.
In the amber glow of late afternoon, Fleur and Louis wandered into a clearing where elms and oaks intermingled, their branches weaving an arch overhead. The ruins of the hunting lodge lay hidden beneath a tangle of ivies and moss, its stones scattered like broken teeth. Here, the forest seemed to hold its breath: a hush, broken only by the distant gurgle of a creek and the occasional tapping of a woodpecker.
Fleur knelt beside a slab of crumbled masonry and plucked a shard of red brick, its edges softened by centuries. “They say the baron kept a small chapel attached to the lodge,” she whispered. “A chapel dedicated to Saint Hubertus, patron saint of hunters. It was modest—just a wooden altar and narrow stained-glass windows. But pilgrims from the region would come here for his feast day, to ask for blessings before the hunt.” She handed the brick to Louis. “Feel how smooth it is. You can almost trace the touch of every hand that laid these stones.”
Louis took it reverently, his fingers lingering over the worn surface. He closed his eyes and let the weight of the past settle around him. “I can imagine the congregation here—men in green hunting cloaks, women with shawls, torches flaring in the dusk. Offering prayers for safe passage through these woods.”
Fleur rose, dusting the hem of her coat. “It’s strange, isn’t it? How something so small—a fragment of history—can speak volumes. Whenever I touch these remains, I feel connected to that moment in time.”
He studied her face: the calm conviction in her eyes, the way her lips curved as though tasting some secret sweetness in the air. He felt a stirring in his chest, a tender ache, and he realised his breath had grown shallow. “Fleur,” he began, clearing his throat, “do you think… do you think people can have a purpose that transcends their own life? I mean, beyond simply preserving the past… might that purpose be in giving something back, in forging a connection that outlives our mortal span?”
Fleur turned towards him, her gaze sympathetic. “I believe purpose is woven into the act of bearing witness. By remembering, by retelling, we allow those who came before to live on. But if our memories and stories also shape the future—if they inspire others to build, to love, to care—then yes, our purpose becomes eternal, though we remain mortal.”
Louis exhaled, a gesture of relief. “That’s… beautifully said.” He extended his hand, guiding her towards the further edge of the clearing, where slender birches formed a curtain around a small gnarled monument. Set upon a rough-hewn plinth was a weathered stone cross, moss-clad and skewed. An inscription, barely legible, read “Ter herinnering aan de dappere soldaten” (In memory of the brave soldiers). Fleur’s voice softened. “This was erected after the Great War—for the young men from Bree who never returned. Each year, on Armistice Day, the entire town would gather here, with wreaths, the choir singing De Vlaamse Leeuw beneath pale November skies.”
Louis placed a finger upon the inscription, tracing the carved letters. “So much sorrow collected in a single stone. And yet, each generation still feels it, as though the cross remains anchored in the collective heart of Bree.” He looked up at Fleur. “I’m grateful to share this with you. I would not wish to explore these memories alone.”
She reached for his hand, entwining her fingers with his. The warmth of her palm against his felt like an ember kindling in his chest. “Neither would I.”
They remained there, quiet, until a shaft of slanting sunlight lit the cross in a golden halo, as though the monument itself were aflame with memory. Then they rose and retraced their steps back toward the trail, their conversation turning to lighter topics: the upcoming Sint-Michaël kermis (fair), complete with carousel, brass band, and a barrel of Limburgse vlaai to be cut in the town square; the annual pumpkin parade in surrounding villages; and the tradition of family gatherings on Sinterklaasavond when children hang stockings in anticipation.
As dusk fell, they arrived back at the church’s steps. Streetlights flickered on, casting pools of soft light on the Baltic sandstone. Louis brushed a stray leaf from Fleur’s coat. “It’s been a rare privilege to see Bree’s hidden corners—and to share them with someone who truly appreciates the layers of history.”
Fleur smiled gently. “I feel the same. I haven’t walked in Kiafheide for years. Your guidance has made it all the more vivid.” She hesitated, then asked quietly, “Do you ever feel… torn between honouring the past and living in the present? Sometimes I wonder if, in our search for meaning in old stones and faded manuscripts, we forget to write our own story.”
Louis looked where her eyes pointed: across the square, where the yellow glow from De Blomme’s windows speckled the night. “I think you’re writing your story, Fleur,” he said softly. “And I… I feel honoured to be a chapter.” He paused. “Would you… would you allow me to walk you home? It’s my aunt’s house, but I know where you live—outside the old city walls, near the farmland of Roerdalen.”
She nodded, heart fluttering. They strode across the Markt, passing the War Memorial at its centre—rows of bronze names inscribed in marble. They paused for a moment, neither speaking, acknowledging the weight of history once more. Then, beneath the streetlamp’s glow, they parted at the gate of Fleur’s cottage: a modest brick home, white-trimmed windows glowing with lamplight.
“Thank you,” Louis said, voice charged with emotion. “For today.”
Fleur’s reply was a whisper: “Thank you, Louis.” Inside her heart, she felt a surge of anticipation, as though the stones themselves had chosen this moment to speak anew.
The following weeks in Bree unfolded like the petals of a flower opening in the morning sun. Each day, Fleur and Louis found reason to meet: be it at the Saturday morning organic market on Grote Steenweg, where local farmers sold honey drawn from the hives at Beverbeek; or during evening strolls along the canal that threaded Bree to Maaseik. They spoke of everything: Louis’s plans to restore a 16th-century chapel near Neeroeteren, Fleur’s interviews with elders who still recalled rationing during the Second World War, and their shared desire to preserve the intangible—songs taught by grandmothers, recipes for vingerhoedkoek (thimble cookies), and even whispered lullabies in the thin Limburgish dialect.
As autumn deepened, Bree prepared for its Vastenavond celebrations—an annual carnival that dated back to pre-Christian times, when villagers donned grotesque masks of kallevert (wooden cattle) and brayed like cattle demons to chase away winter’s chill. In places such as Koersel and Hamont, the more famous parades took place, but Bree’s ephemeral festivities involved smaller, more intimate gatherings of masked revelers parading through the narrow streets, accompanied by drums and accordions. Fleur accepted Louis’s invitation to join her aunt at a masked ball held in the old town hall: she would wear a simple white lace mask embroidered with autumn leaves, while Louis, in a tailored black velvet suit, would don a mask resembling a stag—a nod to Bri’s hunting heritage.
Yet beneath the joy of the season lurked tensions they hadn’t anticipated. Fleur’s parents, staunchly traditional and devoutly Catholic, had misgivings about their daughter’s blossoming relationship. Her mother gently reminded her that any courtship must lead to marriage, and hinted that Fleur’s dedication to wandering lore and old ruins might be a distraction from raising a proper family. At first, Fleur brushed aside their concerns, but when her father offered unsolicited advice—reminding her of the family’s farms in Opglabbeek that needed tending in the coming harvest—the unease in her chest began to twist.
One evening, after hours spent cataloguing old photographs in the heritage office, Fleur received a text from her mother: “Come home for Sunday Mass. We have much to discuss.” Fleur’s heart sank. She didn’t want to disappoint Louis, who’d planned an afternoon walk in the Melickerheide to visit the small chapel of Our Lady of the Moon, where villagers still lit candles each month beneath a luminous lunar fresco dating from 1682. But she also couldn’t avoid the gathering at home. She texted him apologetically, and Louis replied: “Family comes first. I understand. See you later in the week.”
At dinner that Sunday, the farmhouse’s long table groaned with dishes: stoemp (mashed mashed potatoes with kale), Vlaams spek (smoked bacon), and a steaming tureen of Erwtensoep (pea soup) that had bubbled since dawn. Fleur’s younger brother, Stefan, aged twenty, carved a thick slice of brood met choco for himself and watched his sister with worried eyes. Their father, Marcel, sat at the head of the table, his broad shoulders stiff beneath a woollen sweater. The old portrait of Saint Ambrose hung above the mantel, its gilt frame reflecting the soft candlelight.
“Daughter,” her mother began—her voice betraying both concern and fatigue—“you have been away so often, chasing ghosts. What of real life? Of responsibilities? You know the lease on the orchards expires next month.” She gave Fleur a pointed look. “Your brother has offered to take over, but only if you commit your share to him. There is talk of your… friend. A man from Bree. Is he to inherit your share?”
Fleur’s chest tightened: her brother’s farm meant stability; her parents viewed it as the proper future for her. Yet the thought of abandoning her project—her book, her meetings with villagers like old Jan Peeters, who recalled the smuggling routes of 1944—feared like leaving a part of herself behind. “Papa, Mama,” she said, calm yet firm, “my work is important to me… but I understand your worries. Louis respects my work, as you do. He is an architect who will build nothing without considering the past. He wishes to marry me—when the time is right—but I cannot simply hand over family property without my consent. I need to make my own choices.”
Marcel leaned forward, his weathered face half in shadow. “You speak of marriage and dreams. But what of duty? Your grandfather would turn in his grave.” He sighed heavily. “We only want you to have a future.
Not wander forever.”
Fleur held her father’s gaze. “Duty and love can coexist. I love you both, and I love Bree. My purpose here—preserving our stories—honours Grandpa’s legacy. It does not preclude a future that includes family.” She reached for her mother’s hand. “I ask only for your support as I find my path.”
It was not the resolution her parents hoped for. Her mother’s eyes glistened with tears—perhaps relief, perhaps sorrow—and her father lowered his gaze, pursing his lips. The dinner ended in a strained quiet, and Fleur excused herself, gathering her coat. Stefan gave her a small, encouraging smile as she left the farmhouse and stepped into the chill of evening.
The next morning, Fleur arrived at the chapel of Our Lady of the Moon before sunrise. A thin mist clung to the meadow, and the pale moon still lingered in the dawn sky. She knelt before the altar’s flickering taper and whispered a prayer for strength. Around her, the silence of the chapel felt like a balm—ancient stones rising in quiet solidarity against the dark. Outside, a solitary blackbird began its call. She rose, heart steadied, determined to navigate both familial duties and her burgeoning love for Louis.
When Louis found her later by the chapel, she greeted him with a smile that had a bittersweet edge. They walked back to the village in companionable silence, the morning sun gilding roofs and the spire of Sint-Michielskerk. “How did it go at home?” Louis asked gently as they passed the old linden tree near the schoolhouse.
“It was… challenging,” she admitted. “But I stand by my path, Louis.” Her hand found his—warm, steady. “I needed to remind them why I do this work. I need them to trust that our future can include both family and my dreams.”
He drew her closer, cradling her cheek. “I believe in you, Fleur. And I believe in us.” He kissed her forehead. “No matter what comes, we’ll face it together.” In that moment, her heart soared, even as the worries of the previous night lingered like shadows. But Louis’s steady gaze, and the quiet strength she felt in herself, gave her hope that they might carve out a future as timeless as the stones they both revered.
That autumn, Bree celebrated its annual Sint-Michaëlkermis. The festivities began with the lowering of the church bells at dawn and continued through the evening with fairs, brass bands, and fountains sprouting sweet Limburgse geuze. The night before the feast day of Saint Michael, locals gathered for the Dragon’s Run—an age-old tradition in which young men donned dragon masks, paraded through Grote Steenweg, and playfully threatened onlookers with papier-mâché flames, symbolising the victory of good over evil. Fleur and Louis joined the procession, Fleur wearing an intricately painted mask of a phoenix—a nod to rebirth and resilience—while Louis, beneath his stag mask, carried a bouquet of rosemary and thyme, customary herbs used to ward off misfortune.
As they strode through the brightly lit streets, Fleur felt a deep sense of belonging. The townspeople greeted them with waves; children laughed as clowns handed out small waffles dusted with sugar. In the circle of torchlight cast by the central bonfire on the Markt, the mayor recited a short proclamation in Dutch, acknowledging the resilience of Bree’s citizens through centuries of hardship—floods, war, and economic hardship. When the flames rose, touching the night sky, it felt as though the entire town exhaled, embracing warmth and unity.
That evening, beneath the boughs of the ancient linden tree—where generations of lovers had whispered promises—Louis took Fleur’s hand. “Tomorrow, on Saint Michael’s feast,” he began, his voice low and earnest, “I would like to ask you to marry me.”
Fleur’s heart fluttered. The flicker of firelight caught in her eyes, and tears pooled unbidden at the corners. “Louis…” she began, but he interrupted gently.
“I know what your family thinks,” he said, gazing into her eyes with unwavering devotion, “but I promise you this: I will honour your work, respect your choices, and build a life where your calling and our love walk together. Will you marry me, Fleur Van den Broek, in front of our families and friends, here in Bree?”
She felt the world tilt, as though the very foundations of the earth responded to the gravity of that moment. Memories swirled: the broken bricks of the lodge, the mossy cross in Kiafheide, her father’s stern gaze. And yet, more powerfully, she recalled Louis’s steadfast presence, his belief in her purpose. She pressed her gloved hand to his cheek. “Yes, Louis Verlinden. Yes, I will marry you.” The applause of the gathered crowd washed over them, and the church bells—once again—pealed in jubilation.
Winter arrived in Bree as a silver hush, dusting rooftops with fresh snow and frosting the branches of the birch trees with hoarfrost. Fleur and Louis moved into the little cottage near the edge of town where Louis had spent part of his childhood under Aunt Marieke’s care. They renovated the attic into a cosy study for Fleur—dark wood bookshelves lining the walls, a large oak desk facing the window, and stacks of journals and maps collected from the heritage archive. Louis laboured in his workshop, fashioning bespoke shutters for windows salvaged from a 17th-century barn in Peer. Between them, the house soon reflected both their passions: the flicker of candlelight against faded parchments, and plans for restoring sandstone doorways of chapels in neighbouring villages.
Proposal and engagement announcements lingered as the town prepared for Christmas. The Advent wreath, hung in the nave of Sint-Michielskerk, was handcrafted by local artisans, and Fleur organised a small exhibit in the gallery beneath the belfry—an homage to the vanished villages of Eastern Limburg, complete with photographs from the 1950s showing children at play beside a frozen canal and farmers stacking hay in winter fields. The opening night was attended by the mayor, Father De Boeck, and several townsfolk whose memories featured in Fleur’s project. Louis watched Fleur greet each visitor with grace, her eyes bright with quiet determination.
Yet beneath these successes, deeper challenges simmered. Fleur’s health, while generally robust, began to falter under the strain of long hours spent transcribing interviews, walking through icy woods, and caregiving for elderly informants. On one freezing morning in late December, after returning from a visit to ailing Mr. Vanhee—who had recounted tales of clandestine leaflets printed in 1944—Fleur collapsed in the kitchen, coughing violently, her breath wheezing like a wounded bird. Louis, alarmed, tended her fevered brow and bundled her in woollen blankets before racing to fetch the town doctor, Dr. Thijs, who diagnosed early-stage pneumonia. For days, Fleur lay confined to bed, her world reduced to the flicker of candlelight and the scent of pinewood from the hearth.
During that time, Louis took on both roles: caregiver and collaborator. He read aloud from her favourite books—poems by Ida Gerhardt, essays by Jan Lauwereyns—and when she was able, they would discuss the nuances, Fleur’s mind racing with thoughts even as her body remained frail. He brought her bowls of warm pea soup and vlaai from De Blomme, and on the morning she finally stood unsteadily and stepped outside, she found him kneeling in the snow, planting rosemary and thyme beside the doorway—a gesture, he said, to ward off any lingering malaise.
“How did you know?” Fleur asked softly. Snowflakes clung to his hair, and he brushed them away with a tender gesture.
“I remembered what the old mothers said,” he replied. “Herbs to chase away illness, stories to chase away fear. We’re survivors, both you and I—of sickness, of solitude. We’ll survive together.”
Fleur reached for his hand, feeling the warmth return to her limbs. That winter, as January’s frost crowned each pane of glass, they spent long evenings crafting their wedding invitations by hand—pressed leaves from Kiafheide affixed to thick cream-coloured cards. The invitations read:
Met vreugde kondigen wij onze verbintenis aan. Kom en vier ons huwelijk in de Sint-Michielskerk te Bree op de eerste zaterdag van mei.
Fleur Van den Broek & Louis Verlinden
The ceremony was to take place on 2 May, at 11:00 am, and thereafter, a reception at the community hall, where a band would play traditional Limburgse walsen, and neighbours would share vlaai, charcuterie, and the sweet fizz of Belgium’s seasonal kriek.
But before May’s blooms awakened, unrest stirred in their hearts. Fleur received word that Madame Smeets, the archivist who’d generously shared old maps, had passed away after a long illness. The funeral was held on a bleak February morning, wrapped in grey skies, and Fleur delivered a eulogy that spoke of Smeets’ devotion to safeguarding memory. Louis stood by her side, holding her trembling hand as she recounted Smeets’ gentle guidance: “She taught us that we are all keepers of stories, and that to forget is to lose a part of ourselves. Her legacy lives in every map we unfurl, every tale we pass on.”
In March, the entire region felt the tremors of a political rumble: debates over cross-border development had reached a crescendo. The Belgian government proposed expanding the E314 motorway, which would cut through parts of the Beverbeek nature reserve. Locals feared that decades of conservation might be upended for a ribbon of asphalt. Fleur and Louis joined a coalition of villagers, environmentalists, and historians lobbying against the project. They gathered signatures in the Markt square, Fleur appealing to memories of days spent gathering mushrooms off those forest floors, to stories of soldiers who’d once hidden there during war. Louis provided architectural surveys illustrating how the road could reroute around the reserve, preserving both nature and heritage.
One evening, as they pinned petition sheets to a town bulletin board, an older man approached—Herr Van Wessen, a retired smuggler from the Dutch border—his face weathered by age but eyes still keen. He recounted how, in 1944, he and his brother had hidden in those very woods, carrying contraband radios to the Resistance in Genk. “These woods,” he rasped, “kept us alive. You cannot cut them down.” He pressed a folded scrap of newspaper to Fleur’s hand—a letter from 1945, smuggled via secret networks, praising the people of Bree for their solidarity. “Keep these words close. They show us who we are.”
Fleur’s eyes moistened as she unfolded the yellowed paper. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Your story will be remembered.”
Through winter and early spring, they held vigils at the forest’s edge, candlelight flickering among ancient trunks, singing old psalms and folk songs as they awaited decisions from Brussels. In April, the government announced a compromise: the motorway would reroute eastward, preserving over ninety percent of the reserve, thanks in part to studies Fleur and Louis had submitted. The town erupted in quiet celebration: bells once again rang in Sint-Michielskerk, and local paper reported the victory under the headline “Bree Redt Haar Bos” (“Bree Saves Its Forest”).
That triumph lent an air of triumph to their wedding plans. On a golden afternoon in late April, they visited the marketplace where old Jan Peeters handed over a small ceramic jar containing pieces of 17th-century clay from beneath the church’s foundation—tokens to be set into a time capsule buried beneath the threshold of their new home. “So our children,” he said in faint, trembling voice, “will know that love and memory can endure across centuries.”
Fleur and Louis pressed the jar to their hearts and promised to honour it always. As spring came alive—with tulips blossoming in flamboyant reds and yellows, and skylarks rising in chorus above the fields—a gentle sense of anticipation suffused the town.
The morning of 2 May dawned clear and bright. Bree’s rooftops gleamed like burnished copper, and the scent of freshly tilled spring earth drifted on a gentle breeze. The entire town seemed to hold its breath as Fleur donned a simple gown of ivory lace, its bodice embroidered with oak leaves—a symbol of strength—and Louis put on his mother’s heirloom cufflinks, fashioned from silver quarries once quarried in the Kempen.
Guests gathered outside Sint-Michielskerk’s great entrance: relatives from Opglabbeek, colleagues from the heritage office, townsfolk representing generations of Limburg lineage, and even a few Dutch friends from Maastricht. A brass quintet played a soft rendition of Panis Angelicus beneath the steeple as the crowd fell silent.
Fleur descended the church’s stone steps, leaning on her father’s arm. Marcel’s face, usually stern, wore a gentle pride as he offered his daughter to Louis. Tears glistened at the edges of Fleur’s eyes, reflecting both joy and the lingering warmth of winter’s trials. At the altar, adorned with wildflowers foraged from the nearby heath, Louis stood waiting, his gaze unwavering.
Father De Boeck began the service in Flemish, invoking blessings of Saint Michael and Saint Hubertus, and reminding all present of the sacred covenant they were about to witness. Fleur and Louis exchanged handwritten vows: Fleur pledging to continue giving voice to the stories of Bree, to honour both past and future; Louis promising to build and restore with reverence, to cherish Fleur’s wisdom as the cornerstone of their life together.
When Fleur slipped the gold band onto Louis’s finger—etched inside with the words “In Memoriam Aeternum” (In everlasting memory)—a hush enveloped the church. Then, as if released by some unseen force, the congregation rose, and the bells pealed once more across the rooftops and fields beyond. Outside, a shower of rose petals rained down upon the bride and groom as they emerged, radiant, into the daylight.
The reception that followed was held in the community hall, decorated with bunting in the red, white, and yellow of the Limburg province. Long tables groaned beneath platters of Limburgse vlaai: apple, cherry, prune, each slice sweet and tart in turn; bowls of witloofstroganoff (Belgian endive stew) served alongside potatoes dauphinoise; and carafes of brewed hoppebier—dark and effervescent. The band played a medley of folklore tunes: the Limburg wals, the polka of the Kempen, and a lively jig borrowed from the Meuse valley. Fleur and Louis shared their first dance beneath strings of lanterns, swaying in time to a tender accordion melody as their families looked on, some with laughter, some with tears, all with pride.
As dusk settled and lanterns flickered like fireflies, Fleur stole away from the throng with Louis to stand once more beneath the linden tree where, months before, she had stood braving her family’s doubts. This time, instead of uncertainty, she felt a fullness in her chest—as though the stories she had collected, the bricks she had held, and the memories she had honoured had all led to this night of hope.
Louis whispered into her ear, “Our story is just beginning.” He took a small leather-bound notebook from his coat pocket. “In the coming months,” he said, “I want us to travel together—visit the abbey ruins in Villers-la-Ville, the folk museums of Bruges, even wander the dunes of De Panne. But always return home to Bree.”
Fleur turned in his arms, eyes bright. “I want that,” she said firmly. “But first, I want to finish writing our story—so that future generations might understand how love and memory can shape a world. And perhaps our children will bury their own time capsule, adding to the clay from beneath the church.”
He kissed her forehead. “I look forward to reading every chapter.”
Years later, Bree continued to thrive, its traditions both honoured and renewed. Fleur’s book—Whispers of the Kempen: Tales of Memory and Place—became a modest success, read by history enthusiasts and schoolchildren alike. Each year, she and Louis returned to the site of the ruined hunting lodge in Kiafheide, now cleaned up and designated as a protected heritage site, where a simple plaque bore Fleur’s own words: “Here, where stones breathe history, may we learn to listen with our hearts.”
Louis, meanwhile, had become the chief conservation architect for Limburg, restoring not only chapels but also barns, farmhouses, and the old summer palace in Genk. He often credited Fleur for teaching him to view each project not merely as a structural endeavour, but as a living dialogue between past and present.
They raised two daughters—Maeve and Elise—who grew up running barefoot through the Beverbeek grasslands, learning from Aunt Marieke how to identify chanterelles and reciting verses of Guido Gezelle as they rode bicycles down Marketstraat. On warm spring mornings, the family would kneel by the chapel of Our Lady of the Moon to leave tiny white candles flickering beneath the lunar fresco—a tradition that had returned to the village calendar thanks to Fleur’s insistence.
On the anniversary of their meeting, Fleur and Louis would take long walks through Kiafheide, hand in hand, sometimes pausing at the mossy cross to lay a sprig of rosemary. They would inhale the scent of pine and earth, recalling that first tender moment when history had echoed between them. And, always, above the quiet hum of bees and the whisper of wind through the oaks, they heard the faint echo of bells from Sint-Michielskerk—reminding them that love, like memory, endures beyond the fleeting seasons of life.
Thus, in Bree—where ancient stones speak of war and peace, where fields whisper of harvest and hope—Fleur and Louis built their shared future: a testament to the power of stories, the devotion of two hearts, and the conviction that in honouring the past, they could forge a love that transcended time. And so, amidst the pages of her journal, the stones of his restored chapels, and the laughter of their children echoing through Marketstraat, Fleur’s earliest belief rang true: that purpose, like love, is eternal.
If you want to read other stories from Belgium click here.
If you want to read stories from other places click here.
For more information check these posts:
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Off the beaten track: A local’s guide to 5 hidden treats in Limburg
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LIMBURG | Bokrijk, an open‐air museum of folk buildings heritage
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Waking Up on the Roof: Cycling through Limburg—History and a Message to the Countess
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LIMBURG | Bokrijk Open‐Air Museum (personal visit, Oct 2022)
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Hamburgers, half‐timbered houses and vlaai in St‐Martens‐Voeren
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Cycling through Limburg History and a Message to the Countess (Open Monument Day)
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