© 2026 Wren Stevens

The Patron Saint of Love

London — 2 September 2026

We went looking for coffee
and something sweet
before leaving for Wales.

I chose lemon and pistachio.

Aris wanted the same.

Emma shook her head.

No, no, no.

Try the lemon rosemary.
Get one of each.
Then you can share.

And so we did.

When she heard
we were going to Wales,

her whole face opened.

You must see this.
And this.

A forest,
a beach,

an island
with a saint—

Dwynwen,
patron saint of love.

We thanked her.
She went back to work.

But behind the counter

Emma found a scrap of paper

and began writing down
the places she did not want
two strangers to miss.

An arrow.
A name.
Another arrow.

Then she brought it
to our table.

There are days
when I have believed the world
to be terribly broken.

There are reasons enough.

But perhaps it is also being repaired

in places too small
for anyone to report—

behind coffee counters,

between strangers,

on scraps of paper.

Later,
I turned the paper over.

In large black letters:

Happy London

and underneath,

a heart.

Emma S.
2.9.26

I will keep it.

Not because I need directions.

There are maps for that.

I will keep it

because this morning
a young woman I had never met

wanted me to see a beautiful beach,

to stand
where the old stones are,

to find an island
where once there lived a woman
who became the patron saint of love.

And perhaps this is how saints
have always found us—

not glowing,
not announced by bells,

but beside the ordinary road,

pointing toward something beautiful,

saying,

You must see this.

And then returning to work.