Shattered Sleep

The rain had returned to Paris, soft and persistent, painting the windows of the precinct in streaks of silver and gray. The city beyond the glass seemed both distant and muffled, as though the entire world were submerged beneath water, drowning slowly in its own quiet.

Detective Isabelle Laurent sat across from Chief Moretti's desk, her posture sharp, her mind anything but. An untouched cup of coffee cooled in her hand, the steam long gone, much like the traces of restful sleep she'd surrendered days ago.

Moretti's office was a fortress of old case files and locked drawers, but even here, the silence spoke volumes. The chief's gaze wasn't the stern, familiar kind she'd grown used to — it was heavy, wary, as though the words he was about to speak weighed more than the concrete walls around them.

"You need to slow down, Isabelle."

She didn't answer. Her eyes drifted to the blinds, the faint pulse of a distant siren flashing across the walls like a heartbeat struggling to stay alive.

Moretti leaned forward, lacing his fingers on the desk.

"You've crossed a line. And I'm not the only one who thinks so."

Isabelle finally looked at him, her lips parting as if to speak, but no words came. There was too much, and not enough, all at once. The images were still fresh: Vivienne's scarf wrapped in plastic, the camera still warm at the abandoned press, the smell of paper and formaldehyde lingering like an unwanted perfume.

"Paris isn't a village. There's pressure coming from higher up." Moretti's voice softened, the weight shifting from authority to reluctant concern. "This isn't just another case anymore. Whatever you've found—it's making the wrong people very interested."

She set the coffee cup down, finally meeting his gaze. "And if I stop looking, the trail will vanish. Just like them."

Moretti exhaled, long and low. "Which is why you're not going to stop. But you're not going to do it alone anymore either." He reached into the desk drawer, pulling out a slim personnel file. The paper was fresh, crisp, as though it had only just been printed.

"You'll be working with Detective Adrien Marchand. Effective immediately."

Isabelle raised an eyebrow, the name catching her off guard. Marchand was sharp, calculated, and notoriously difficult to read. She'd crossed paths with him before, though never as partners. He was the type who moved through the world as if it were already half-buried in shadows.

"You're serious?" she asked.

Moretti nodded. "He's clean. No entanglements. You'll need someone like him, especially now."

The rest of the conversation blurred, carried away by the rain tapping insistently at the glass. She left the office with the file tucked under her arm, Marchand's black-and-white ID photo staring up at her from the folder, as if challenging her already.

The hours that followed were spent in a haze of logistics: forms, reassigned duties, briefing rooms, the mechanical coldness of law enforcement bureaucracy. She met Marchand for a stiff introduction over coffee neither of them enjoyed, exchanged barely more than the necessary words, and retreated back to her own apartment as the night deepened.

But sleep didn't come.

The rain never truly stopped in Paris, not in her mind. Its sound echoed through her walls, through the thin glass panes of her apartment window, through the cracks in her memories.

She lay on her back, the ceiling a void, waiting for rest to swallow her.

It did. But it wasn't the kind she needed.

In her dream, the world was made entirely of gray, as if all the color had been drained from existence, leaving behind only outlines and fading shapes. The streets of Paris were empty, soundless, the kind of emptiness that pressed on the chest and made breathing feel like a choice rather than instinct.

She was standing outside Saint-Pierre Church.

The doors loomed wide open, gaping like the mouth of something too old and too tired to close itself. Fog spilled from the threshold, cold and damp, wrapping around her feet and pulling her forward.

She walked inside.

The air was thick with the scent of melted wax and rotting wood. Candles flickered on cracked holders, their flames stuttering as if protesting their own existence.

And then she heard it.

A voice.

A soft, broken whisper that drifted through the pews, rising from the shadows, calling her name.

"… Isabelle."

Her heart hammered against her ribs, the sound distant and muted, as if her own body were part of the dream.

She followed the voice, every step echoing off the walls in unnatural rhythm, until she stood before the old confessional booth. The curtain hung half-open, swaying gently, though there was no wind.

The voice called again.

"…Help me."

It was her sister's voice.

Vivienne.

Frozen, Isabelle's hand trembled as she reached for the curtain, her fingers grazing the worn velvet, her breath a fragile thread between her and the darkness inside.

She pulled it open.

There was no one there. Only the lingering scent of rosewater perfume, the same one Vivienne used to wear.

And then the voice came one last time, but this time, it wasn't a whisper. It was sharp, urgent, desperate.

"…He's still here."

Isabelle jerked awake, her body drenched in cold sweat, the sheets twisted around her limbs like chains. Her apartment was silent, save for the relentless drum of rain on glass.

But as her pulse slowed, her eyes caught something on the nightstand.

A single rose petal.

Fresh.

And glistening with rainwater.

To be continued...