Paris was quieter now.
The rain had stopped. The river moved gently under the Pont Neuf, carrying away the last shadows of a storm no one would ever read about in the morning papers.
Inside the Ministry, behind soundproof doors and polished floors, Lucien Morel handed over the briefcase — what was left of it — to an unmarked official. No words were exchanged. Just a nod. And a signature.
Back on the street, Clémence waited in a black car, engine idling.
“Well?” she asked.
Morel got in, pulled the door shut.
“They’re burying it,” he said.
“Of course they are. The names. The payments. The diplomats. No one wants that in the sunlight.”
He looked at her. “What about us?”
She smirked. “We were never here.”
At the Gare de Lyon, he stepped off alone. Clémence drove away without a word.
He took the train south.
A week later, he stood on a gravel road outside a quiet farmhouse in Provence. Vines climbed the old stone walls. A boy played with a dog near the well. Sophie appeared on the porch.
“You found us,” she said.
Morel removed his coat. “Wasn’t hard.”
They sat under the fig tree, a pot of coffee between them. Silence came easily.
“Do you regret it?” she asked.
He didn’t answer at first.
“I regret trusting Mercier,” he said. “I don’t regret stopping him.”
She nodded. “I don’t regret choosing Julien.”
Morel glanced toward the boy.
“Does he know?”
“Enough.”
Morel took a sip. “Will you stay here?”
She smiled, but her eyes were tired. “For now. Maybe I’ll write again.”
He raised an eyebrow. “About all this?”
She shook her head. “A story. About a pianist. And a ghost who chased him.”
He stood.
“I should go.”
She walked him to the road.
“Lucien?”
He turned.
“Thank you.”
He nodded once, then disappeared down the hill, the golden light casting long shadows behind him.
Somewhere in Paris, another case file was being opened.
But that’s another story.