MasukÉlianor
The snow has stopped falling by the time I get home, leaving behind a white blanket that covers everything. The roofs, the trees, the garden, Marcus's little house. Everything that was there before, everything that will be there after, everything that is there now. In this muffled silence, this soft light, this suspended time, this moment out of time when I set foot on the threshold, when I open the door, when I hear the laughter, the shouts, the sounds of life. MyI take the playdough. I make a castle, a house, a garden, a family. A family with a daddy, a mommy, children. Children who run, who play, who laugh, who live, who are happy, who are loved. Who are everything one could possibly be best at in the world. And I look at them. Marcus, Léon, Lola. I look at them and I tell myself that this is life. This is what must be protected. This is what matters. This is what gives meaning to all these battles, to all these lies, to all these truths discovered too late. This is what makes you get up in the morning. Fight. Win. Lose. Start over. Hope. Believe. Love. Love enough to stay. To not leave. To not run. To not be afraid. To not doubt. To not hide. To not forget yourself. To not forget everything that matters. Everything that is worth it. Everything that deserves to be fought for, to be stayed for, to be loved for, to be lived for. "It's beautiful," Marcus says, looking at the castle, the house, the gard
I sit down on the floor, next to Marcus. I take the playdough. I make shapes, animals, flowers, things I don't know how to make, that I've never known how to make, that I'm learning with them, with him, with us. And I look at him. I look at him making a castle, a house, a garden, a life. A life he is building with my children. With our children. With our hands, our hearts, our lives. And I feel my heart beating faster, harder, longer. I feel something rising, growing, invading me, choking me, preventing me from breathing, from thinking, from speaking, from doing anything but looking at him, seeing him, feeling him, loving him. Loving him like I've never loved anyone. Loving him like I never believed I could love. Loving him like I never wanted to love. Because it's too much. Too strong. Too big. Too everything, everything, everything. And I'm afraid. Afraid of what will happen if I continue, if I don't run, if I stay, if I say yes. If I finally say what I've never said to
ÉlianorThe snow has stopped falling by the time I get home, leaving behind a white blanket that covers everything. The roofs, the trees, the garden, Marcus's little house. Everything that was there before, everything that will be there after, everything that is there now. In this muffled silence, this soft light, this suspended time, this moment out of time when I set foot on the threshold, when I open the door, when I hear the laughter, the shouts, the sounds of life. My life. The life that goes on. That goes on despite everything. Despite Sabrina. Despite the lies. Despite the secrets. Despite the crimes. Despite everything that should have destroyed us, broken us, annihilated us. And that didn't. That didn't succeed. Because we are here. Because we are together. Because that's what family is. It's not blood. It's not papers. It's not lies. It's those who stay. Those who hold on. Those who love. Those who don't leave. Those who don't flee. Those who don't betra
Commander Renaud looks at me. She looks at me with those eyes that have seen thousands of liars, thousands of guilty, thousands of innocents, thousands of people who have done horrible things, things one cannot imagine, things one cannot forgive, things one cannot forget, things that remain, that remain etched in these walls, in these neon lights, in this table, in this chair, in this file, in these photos, in this evidence, in everything that is here, everything that will never leave, everything that will stay, everything that will be here when I am no longer here, when I am gone, when I am dead, when I am forgotten, when I am nothing more, nothing more than these photos, this evidence, these lies, these secrets, these crimes."You're lying, Mrs. Fabron," she says in a soft voice, almost gentle, a voice that doesn't need to shout, doesn't need to threaten, doesn't need to frighten. Because the truth is there. Because the evidence is there. Because
SabrinaThe interrogation room is small, too small, with its gray walls, its flickering neon lights, its Formica table upon which are placed a tape recorder, a thick file, and those photos. Photos of the vials I know. That I held. That I emptied into Gérard's IVs. Photos I have looked at hundreds of times, wondering if I would go through with it. If I would kill him. If I would let him live. If I would silence him. If I would let him speak. If I would let him tell the truth. If I would let him destroy everything I built. Everything I stole. Everything I took. Everything I kept. Everything I protected. Everything I loved. Everything I hated. Everything I was. Everything I am. Everything I will be.Commander Renaud is sitting across from me, with her gray hair, her eyes that don't let go of me, her hands resting on the file, her fingers tapping, tapping, tapping, like a metronome, like a countdown, like time passing, flowing, e
I leave the police station. I walk in the falling snow. I walk without knowing where I'm going, without knowing what I'm doing, without knowing what I'm thinking. I walk because if I stop, if I think, if I think of Sabrina, of what she did, of what she wanted to do, of what she would have done if I hadn't been there, if I hadn't hired detectives, if I hadn't put my money, my power, my will into discovering the truth—I collapse, I fall, I disappear into this falling snow, falling, falling, as if the sky wanted to cover everything, erase everything, make everything disappear. The crimes, the lies, the secrets. Everything, everything, everything.My phone vibrates. I pull it from my pocket. I look at the screen. It's Marcus. It's always Marcus. It's him who is there, who is always there. Who waits for me. Who hopes. Who loves. Who doesn't leave. Who doesn't flee. Who isn't afraid. Who is never afraid. Or who is afraid but stays. Stays anyway. Because it's h
LioraFive years.Five years of watching the slow demise of the printing press, counting unpaid bills, smiling until my jaw ached. The club's air is unchanging: a scent of stale wax, old wood, and muffled despair. I stand straight, hands flat on the back of an armchair
ÉlianorThe silence envelops me, but here, it's not the purchased silence of a hotel. It's an hereditary silence. It's woven into the heavy silk drapes, embedded in the dark woodwork, muffled by the Oriental rugs that swallow every footstep. It reigns in this dwelling that isn't a rental, but a ret
ÉlianorWhite.An immaculate, gentle white that wraps around everything. It is the first thing I perceive. An absence of color, of weight, of cold. A diffuse, soothing light.Is this what heaven feels like?I have never truly believed in heaven. Hell, yes I know it well. I have walked through it. B
SabrinaHer fingers are still tracing lazy circles on my back. Sweat is beginning to dry on our skin, creating a thin, salty film that sticks us together. The silence is heavy, satisfied. Then his voice breaks the spell, low and curious."And Liora? How is she?"I smile, burying my face against his







