Chapter 4: The Red Scarf

The sun was at its zenith, casting pale rays through the living room curtains. Victor Langlois lay on his folding bed, his eyelids half-closed, pretending to sleep to escape the demands of his infant body. The house was quiet since Paul had gone to work, leaving behind a half-empty coffee cup on the kitchen table. Élise was busy somewhere in another room—Victor could hear the scrape of a broom against the floor and the soft hum of a song she was singing under her breath, a popular 90s tune he vaguely recognized.

He felt a wave of physical fatigue wash over him again, but his mind remained sharp, running at full speed.

A rough engine noise interrupted his thoughts. Victor opened his eyes and turned his head toward the window with an effort that reminded him once again of his weakness. Through the curtains, he saw an old metallic grey Citroën BX awkwardly parking in front of the house. The car door opened, and a familiar figure got out: Colette, his paternal grandmother. She wore a beige coat too big for her and a floral-patterned scarf tied around her head. In her hands, she held a canvas bag overflowing with balls of yarn and a package wrapped in brown paper.

Victor felt a mix of curiosity and apprehension. Colette had always been a dominant presence in his first life—a woman with a strong voice, sharp opinions, who never missed an opportunity to criticize the modern world. He remembered her as both a warm and intimidating figure, with her bulky knits and biting remarks. What would she think of him now?

The front door creaked open, and Élise's voice echoed from the hallway.

— Colette! You're here! Come in, come in, don't stay outside.

Colette entered the living room, her heavy footsteps making the floorboards creak. She placed her bag on the sofa and turned toward Élise, who had just appeared with a cloth in her hand, her cheeks flushed from the effort of cleaning.

— You look exhausted, Colette said with a frown. You should rest instead of running around like this.

— Oh, I'm fine, replied Élise with a little laugh. I'm hanging in there. And I wanted the house to be clean for you.

Colette grunted, a sound that seemed to express both disagreement and satisfaction. She approached the folding bed, her squinted eyes scrutinizing Victor with an intensity that almost made him uncomfortable. Her gray hair stuck out in rebellious tufts under her scarf, and her wrinkled face bore the marks of a life of hard work—she had been a seamstress before retiring.

— So, this is him, the little genius of the family? she said, leaning over the crib.

Victor stared back at her, motionless. He couldn't respond, but his gaze didn't waver. Colette tilted her head, intrigued, then extended a knobby hand to gently touch his cheek.

— There's something in his eyes, this little one. Looks like he's already judging me.

Élise burst out laughing, moving closer to place a hand on her mother-in-law's shoulder.

— Don't talk nonsense. He's just a baby!

— Maybe, Colette replied with a sly smile. But I know how to spot a character when I see one.

Victor felt a strange satisfaction wash over him. Colette had always had a sixth sense for reading people, an intuition he had underestimated in his past life.

Colette straightened up and handed the brown paper package to Élise.

— Here, it's for him. I finished it last night.

Élise unwrapped the gift with childlike enthusiasm, revealing a red wool scarf, knitted with thick, uneven stitches. Victor recognized it immediately—it was the same one she had given him in his first life, the one he had reluctantly worn during the cold winters of his childhood. It was too long, too rough, but he knew he would have to feign appreciation when he was big enough to wear it.

— Oh, it's beautiful! Élise exclaimed, unfolding it. Look at this, Victor, grandma made you a scarf just for you!

She draped it around his neck, a purely symbolic gesture given his tiny size. The wool scratched against his delicate skin, and he mentally suppressed a grimace. Colette nodded, satisfied.

— It'll keep him warm. The winters are tough around here, and these new modern houses are useless for keeping the heat in.

Élise smiled, placing the scarf over the back of the sofa before picking up Victor in her arms.

— Come, let's sit for a bit. Would you like some tea?

— With two sugars, Colette replied, settling heavily on the sofa, which protested under her weight.

The rest of the afternoon unfolded in peaceful slowness. Élise made tea in an old chipped teapot, and the two women sat at the kitchen table, talking quietly while Victor rested in his mother's lap. Colette told anecdotes about the village—a quarrel between neighbors over a misplanted tree, a dog that had knocked over the trash cans—while Élise laughed or nodded, adding her own comments about life in the suburbs.

Victor listened, motionless, analyzing each word. He remembered these conversations from his first life, the way Colette always dominated the exchanges with her fixed opinions. She spoke with suspicion about new technologies—"These cell phones, they make people stupid"—and Élise absently nodded, more out of politeness than conviction. Victor smiled inwardly. If only they knew what he had accomplished in 2050 with those same technologies, they'd be shocked.

He also observed their gestures. Colette fiddled with a ball of yarn she had pulled from her bag, her fingers accustomed to knitting even while she spoke. Élise rocked Victor mechanically, a maternal reflex that seemed to comfort both her and him. They were so ordinary, so grounded in their little world. And yet, they were his gateway to something much bigger.

As the day waned, Colette got up to leave, promising to return soon with a blanket to match the scarf. Élise walked her to the door, holding Victor in her arms. He watched the Citroën drive away in a cloud of smoke, then felt Élise hold him just a little tighter.

— You liked your grandma, didn't you? she whispered as they went back inside.