Chapter 52 - 52: “To friends who don’t forget you exist.

Words : 1169 Updated : Sep 10th, 2025

Next Morning Moreau stood in front of his childhood home with his hands in his coat pockets, looking across the narrow square this body used to play in. The same crooked bench sat near the tree. The same green shutter creaked open across the street when the wind hit it right. "Still standing," he muttered. Renaud stepped beside him, adjusting his coat collar. "You really grew up here?" Moreau nodded slowly. "I expected something a little more… I don't know. Marble floors, wine cellars, cigars in every drawer." "Not everyone's a Versailles brat, Renaud." Renaud snorted. "Fair. But after that dinner last night, I'm pretty sure your mother could feed an entire garrison with just a pot of stew." "She always overcooked when I came home. Said it was her way of keeping me longer." "Well, it's working. I'd fake a stomach injury to stay here another night." Moreau grinned. "Come on. I want you to meet someone." They walked along Rue des Marronniers, a small street pressed close by old townhouses and scattered sycamore trees. A vendor selling chestnuts shouted about his fresh batch, and somewhere nearby, the clang of a tram bell rang off the walls. Two kids darted past them with a stick and hoop, laughing. A priest nodded politely as he passed. An old man stood in his doorway brushing dust from a doormat. "Feels like nothing's changed here," Moreau muttered. "Smells like nothing's changed either," Renaud added, sniffing the air. "God, is that fresh bread?" Moreau didn't answer. He'd stopped in front of a red door with peeling paint and a doorbell that barely hung on its hook. He knocked twice. Footsteps. Then the door creaked open, revealing a stocky man with a short beard and rolled-up sleeves, blinking at them. "Étienne…? No way." "Still alive, Toulouse," Moreau said. "Mon Dieu!" The man grabbed him in a bear hug, nearly lifting him off the step. "You bastard! You didn't write. You didn't even send word!" "I like to make an entrance." Toulouse stepped back, wiping his hands on his apron. "You look like hell. And who's this?" "Renaud," Moreau said. "He's... well, he's like a bad habit. Hard to get rid of." Renaud extended a hand. "Pleasure to meet someone who knew him before the army tried to ruin him." "Get in here before you freeze," Toulouse said. The inside of the locksmith shop smelled like iron, oil, and wine. The back was cluttered with tools, spare keys, old clocks, and an empty bottle of Beaujolais sitting proudly next to a photograph of three boys sitting on a rooftop. Moreau was in the center of that photo smaller, sharper-eyed, but unmistakably him. Toulouse poured three glasses of Marc de Bourgogne, clinking them together with force. "To the bastards who come back," he said. "To friends who don't forget you exist," Moreau replied. "To none of this being in the morning paper tomorrow," Renaud added. They drank. "So," Toulouse said, leaning on the counter. "Tanks, right? That's what they say?" Moreau nodded. "Yeah. Leading one now." Renaud beamed. "More than one. He's got a squadron under him. Keeps trying to teach the army how to use their damn heads." Toulouse chuckled. "You always were the one who had too many ideas. I remember the pencil case incident." "Oh no," Moreau groaned. "What pencil case?" Renaud grinned. "Serge called his little brother weak. Étienne here didn't even flinch. Just took that solid wood pencil case and bam broke Serge's nose right in front of the school gate." S~eaʀᴄh the NovelFire.net* website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality. "It was heavy," Moreau said dryly. "Sure it was," Renaud snickered. "Remind me not to borrow stationery from you." They laughed again, drinking in silence for a few seconds before Toulouse added, "It's good to see you smile again, Étienne. I mean that." Moreau looked away. "Yeah… it's good to feel something like normal." They left the shop and headed to an old bistro tucked in a side street. The sign was crooked. The waiter was the same one from fifteen years ago, now balding and twice as round. "Still drinking red?" the waiter asked without even greeting them. "Still pouring the cheap stuff?" Moreau shot back. They sat down ordering a plate of cheese and saucisson. "You really used to sneak wine here?" Renaud asked. "Every other weekend," Moreau said. "We'd sit back there by the window. Thought we were invincible." Renaud shook his head. "Hard to picture you sneaking anything. You walk like you own every room." "Back then I was just a kid who wanted to be anywhere but here," Moreau replied. "You still want to be anywhere but here?" Toulouse asked. Moreau looked around. "No. Not anymore." They fell into old stories. The time Moreau helped his brother forge a cinema pass with pencil and paper. The time Toulouse tried to build a radio and shorted three buildings. The time they stole a police whistle and caused a riot at the bakery. "Your mother must've prayed every day," Renaud said, shaking his head. "She made me eat a whole cigar once when she caught me smoking behind the butcher." "God damn," Renaud winced. "That's medieval." "She's protective," Moreau said, smiling faintly. After lunch, they walked near the tram stop. Renaud stopped to toss a coin in the violinist's hat. "You know," he said as they walked again, "this might be the most peace I've had since joining the army." "Yeah," Moreau agreed. "Same." There was a long pause. "Want to hear a story?" Moreau asked. Renaud grinned. "If it ends with cigars or broken noses, absolutely." "No, this one's a bit different." Moreau dropped his voice, leaning in. "There was a city once. A floating one. It didn't use coal or oil just crystals. Crystals that floated in the air like stars. And the people, they lived for hundreds of years, not because they were immortal but because they learned how to rewrite time…" Renaud blinked. "You're making this up." "I'm not," Moreau grinned. "It's true. Or at least, someone somewhere thought it up. I'm just borrowing it." Renaud poured the last of the wine into his glass. "The crystals lived inside them?" "Exactly." Renaud stared at him for a moment, then shook his head. "You are one weird bastard, Moreau. But I like it." They sat a while longer in silence, letting the feel of the city wrap around them. By the time they walked back through the now-dimming streets, the lamps were being lit. Kids had gone inside. Moreau stopped outside his house and looked up at the warm yellow light pouring through the shutters. "Welcome home," Renaud said quietly. Moreau didn't say anything. He didn't need to.

Chapter 52 - 52: “To friends who don’t forget you exist.

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