"Paris never brings peace. Only politics."

It was a quiet morning.

Warm bread was still on the table.

The butter sat half-melted in the dish.

Étienne Moreau sipped his coffee, seated at the table beside his mother, who was passing a plate of toast to Renaud.

His little brother was telling a story about school something about a classmate falling asleep during a geography lesson and everyone laughed, even his father, who barely looked up from the newspaper.

"France is so peaceful these days," his mother said, dabbing her lips with a napkin. "For all the talk on the radio, things feel… steady."

Renaud scoffed. "Peaceful is good. Let's hope it lasts longer than my boots."

"I mean it," she said. "It's been so nice having you both here. Like it used to be."

Her eyes lingered on Étienne for a second too long. "I wish it could last a bit longer."

Before he could reply, a sharp voice broke the calm.

"Capitaine Moreau!"

It rang from the street.