Chapter 2: The Ghost at the Cart
Julian’s vision blurred. The tailored structure of his suit felt like a cage around a chest that could barely draw breath. Behind him, Claire stepped forward, her heels clicking against the cobblestones. "Julian? What’s going on? Who is this?"
He didn’t hear her. All he saw was the woman’s weathered hands—the faint burn scars running across her wrists, identical to the faint white mark on his own forearm.
"Maman...?" The word tore from his throat before his mind could filter it. It was a child’s word, dormant for three decades.
The woman collapsed into his chest, her thin frame shaking with silent, wracking sobs. Julian wrapped his arms around her, heedless of the flour smudging his bespoke wool coat. The scent of vanilla, yeast, and ancient sorrow washed over him. For thirty years, he had believed his family perished in the 1993 Lyon apartment fire—that he was the sole survivor of a forgotten tragedy.
"They told me you were dead," Julian murmured against her gray hair. "The orphanage records... the state officials... they said no one survived."
The woman pulled back, cupping his face in palms roughened by forty years of wood-fired ovens. "My name is Hélène. And they lied to you, mon petit. Just as they told me my baby boy burned in his crib."
Claire stood frozen, her eyes wide as tourists bustled past the arched square. "Julian, look at her. You can't just take an old woman's word on a street corner. This could be a setup."
"It’s not," Julian whispered, his thumb grazing the torn edge of the photo. "Look at the man in this picture, Claire. That’s my face."
May you like
Hélène glanced nervously over Julian’s shoulder toward a black sedan idling near the cathedral. "We cannot speak here. The Laurent family name does not belong to you, Julian. You were born Henri Vaneau. And the men who took you are still watching."
---
