Manuscript II: Echoes in the Library

The sun rose reluctantly over Château Beaumont, its light muted by thick clouds and a lingering winter haze. Inside the ancient walls, silence reigned, broken only by the occasional creak of old timber or the distant call of a mourning dove.

Élodie stood before the tall library doors, her hand resting on the ornate brass handle. She hadn't entered this room since her father's funeral. The scent of ink, cedarwood, and time still clung to the space beyond, haunting and comforting in equal measure.

She pushed the door open slowly. The room greeted her like a memory: rows of tall shelves, the great fireplace still charred from the last fire her father had lit, and the giant globe in the corner tilted eternally toward dreams of discovery.

Julien was already there, perched on a ladder, reaching for a faded leather-bound volume. His scarf had slipped loose again, and strands of dark hair fell over his brow.

"You're up early," she said, her voice softer than she intended.

He looked down and smiled faintly. "The books don't wait. I found your father's coded journals — I think. But I can't quite crack the key."

Élodie stepped into the room, her boots echoing on the tiled floor. She took the journal from his hand and flipped through the pages. Each one was filled with tight script and strange symbols.

"I remember these," she whispered. "He used to say they were stories for the stars. But I think… I think they were names. Codenames."

Julien's expression turned serious. "You mean for the Resistance?"

She nodded slowly. "He never spoke of it after the war. But I used to hear him at night. Arguing. Crying. Once, I saw him burn a letter he hadn't even opened."

He stepped down from the ladder, careful, deliberate. "Your father was a difficult man to research. No one seems to agree on what he did, or why. Some call him a hero. Others—"

"—a traitor," she finished, folding her arms tightly. "Yes. I've heard it all."

They stood in silence, the weight of the past pressing between them.

"Do you believe he was guilty?" Julien asked, his voice low.

Élodie looked away, her gaze falling on the globe. "I don't know what I believe anymore."

Julien reached into his satchel and pulled out a photograph. He handed it to her with care. It was worn at the edges, but the image was clear: her father, standing beside a man she didn't recognize — both in uniform, both smiling.

"That was taken two weeks before he vanished from public record," Julien said. "I found it in the archives of Le Monde. Someone tried to remove it, but I made a copy."

Her fingers trembled around the photograph.

"Why are you really here, Julien?" she asked.

He looked her in the eye. "Because your father saved my mother's life. And I need to know why he disappeared when the others didn't."

She wasn't expecting that. Her breath caught.

"You never told me that."

"You never asked," he replied gently.

Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the shutters. Somewhere in the distance, a clock chimed.

Élodie handed back the journal. "Then let's find out the truth together."

He took it, their fingers brushing — a fleeting touch, electric and uncertain.

And just like that, the past began to whisper louder.