Tracing the Past

Rain traced the windows of the town hall like fingers dragging through dusted glass, the sky a curtain of gray. Elias sat wrapped in his coat, a hollow cough pressing against his ribs, while Celeste poured through archives with trembling hands.

Henri Dubois.

A name inked in brittle records, once bold, now faded. A businessman of some local esteem—his signature rigid, self-assured. Married. The wife's name: Marie.

"She's still alive," Celeste whispered, her voice unreadable. "In a nursing home on Rue de Vannes."

They found Marie in a room that smelled of lavender and time, her silver hair coiled tight as her smile. Her eyes held no warmth—only something cold, like polished stone.

"I knew about Anna," she said, lips pursed, hands folded like secrets. "He was a fool."

Celeste stiffened. "She loved him."

Marie's eyes flickered. "He ended it. That's all."

"And the child?" Elias asked, each word pulled from a tired throat.

For a moment, silence.

Then Marie's gaze slipped to the window. "There was no child," she said, too quickly.

Celeste didn't reply. Her fingers clutched Elias's sleeve as they left, the silence between them thick with doubt.

Outside, the wind bit hard, but neither turned back.

"She's lying," Celeste said. "Or afraid of the truth."

Elias nodded. "And the truth… waits for us."

Their footsteps echoed through puddles, their bond deepened not by answers, but by the ache of what remained unspoken.