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
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