LOGINÉlianor
The car purrs through the night, a muffled, almost intimate sound that contrasts violently with the chaos inside me. The streets glide under the orange streetlights, too calm, too normal. This normality strikes me. The world saw nothing. It continues, imperturbable, while mine was sabotaged slowly, methodically.
I park in front of the police station.
A building of concrete and glass, soulless. An administrative fortress, designed to contain ot
MarthaThe tea grows cold in my hands, forgotten. I'm at the kitchen window, behind the lace curtain. A silent sentinel. I saw everything.I saw Marcus leave the house, his face a frozen storm. I saw Élianor collapse against her own door, a moment of total weakness before she straightened, reassembled her mask of icy determination. I saw the children at the upstairs window, two small shadows pressed against the glass, watching the stranger who looks so much like their brother.My heart, this old heart that loves Élianor above all, clenches painfully.I know. With a certainty beyond reason. A certainty of instinct, of a woman who has seen lives born and raised. Marcus is the father of these children. The resemblance to Léon is no coincidence. It's a fact, written in the flesh, in the way they carry themselves, in that intensity of gaze.And Élianor… my poor, brave, terrified Élianor. She thinks
MarcusThe cottage is a silence too vast. A silence that leaves too much room for the echoes of our confrontation, for memories distorted by time and desire, for the obsessive vision of her face—closed, denying, impregnable.I pace. The room is too small. The world is too small, now that I know. Now that I've seen them.Léon. Lilou.The names are incantations on my lips. A prayer and a curse. A discovery so monumental it crushes everything else: the search that brought me here. All of that seems trivial now, distant, the affair of a man I no longer was, and will never be again. Because what I'm discovering goes beyond anything I imagined… I found the woman from that night and with her, two children.I stop at the window facing the house. She's there, behind one of those panes. Rebuilding her armor, patching the breaches I thought I'd opened. She's repeating the lie to them, cementing it in their little minds. The t
ÉlianorThe house door closes behind me with a dull thud that resonates through my entire being. I lean against it, palms flat on the cold wood, as if to anchor myself to the reality it represents. My reality. The only one that matters.But behind my closed eyelids, it's his face I see. Marcus. Distorted by a shattering certainty. And his words. His words that cut through six years of silence and barricades like knives.The Mercure hotel. The scar.An uncontrollable shiver runs down my spine. I press my hands harder against the wood until my knuckles whiten. No. It's impossible. He can't know. He can't remember."Mommy?"The small voice, full of unsatisfied curiosity, pierces me. I open my eyes. They're both there, at the foot of the stairs. Léon, with his stubborn air, his green eyes that are today a living accusation. Lilou, slightly behind, clutching her teddy bear to her, her refuge.ÉLIANOR
MarcusTheir little footsteps still echo in my head, synchronized with the disordered beating of my heart. Léon. Lilou. The names spin, imprint themselves. Soft, light names that contrast violently with the weight of their existence.I haven't moved. The sun rises, warming the terrace stones, but a coldness persists inside me, deep down. It's no longer the shame of the dream. It's a far greater vertigo. The vertigo of the obvious.Their resemblance is no vague coincidence. It's a copy. A replica. The inheritance is there, flagrant, in every detail of Léon's face. And Lilou… her eyes, that way of tilting her head. Élianor is there, in watermark.Our daddy is in heaven.The child's words return, cutting. A pious lie. A tomb built from scratch. For them. For me. For her.The main house door opens again, but this time it's not a small figure that emerges.It's her.Élianor.Sh
MarcusThe coffee burns its way down my throat, bitter. A bulwark against insomnia and the memories still dancing behind my eyelids. I'm sitting on the cottage terrace, out of sight, watching the main house awaken. The cool morning air can't wash away the residual heat of the dream.That's when I see them.On the sun-drenched veranda of the main house, two small silhouettes. A boy and a girl. They must be five years old. The boy is talking animatedly to his sister, pointing a finger toward the garden.And my heart stops.The boy… it's like looking at a yellowed photograph of myself at that age. The same disheveled brown hair. The same stubborn set of the jaw. The same way of standing, slightly defiant, even at ease.The girl resembles him, more delicate. Ash-blonde curls, bright, clear eyes. She listens to her brother, then her gaze sweeps the garden and lands on me.Surprise freezes her. Then indignation.
MarcusThe night in the cottage is thick, porous. It lets memories filter through, but what seeps through is the essential: the sensation. It's not an image that comes first, it's a feeling. The humid heat of a summer night. Low music, coming from somewhere else. The sharp, intoxicating sense of the forbidden.Six years ago. An anonymous hotel. Me, stranded there, drained by fatigue. Her…In the dream, she has no face. Only a presence. The curve of a hip beneath silk. The nape of a neck, exposed. A muffled laugh against my shoulder. A stranger. An escape. My despair and loneliness, seeking to annihilate themselves in another's body.I see myself drawing her in. Mouth to mouth, in the elevator with its endless mirrors. The taste of a sweet cocktail on her lips. The urgency. That visceral need to forget myself, to lose myself in unknown flesh, to silence the void with the tumult of the senses.Then the room. Darkness, pierced by
ÉlianorThe silence between us has become a third presence, heavy and elastic. It stretches, tightens, charged with everything left unsaid. With my lie of omission. With hers, larger, more fundamental.She is still sitting near the bed, my hand in hers, but her touch is no longer simple warmth. It
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
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
ÉlianorThe doctor left hours ago, but the beeping of the two small hearts still echoes in my head. A primal, insistent rhythm. I keep my hand resting on my belly, where the gauze bandage feels rough beneath my fingers. Flat. Seemingly inert. And yet, it's a universe pulsating within. Two universes







