The 27th Night

I woke to the sound of voices—low, tense. The Seine’s breath, rising from the water and slipping through the narrowly ajar window, settled cool against my face. Beneath me, the leather sofa felt unyielding, its contours moulding heavy around my shoulders, leaving my neck crooked from an uneasy rest. Through the tall windows opposite, blue light spilled across the room in fractured, uneven patterns. The apartment lay still but for the shifting glow that washed across the floor and onto the ceiling—an old Parisian place with mottled walls that carried echoes and lingering memories, worn in places, but coveted for its view.

I lay still, listening. My eyes tracked the shifting light as muffled voices rose through the stone archway beyond the iron gates and up the stairwell. Snatches of police band conversation crackled over radios, followed by long stretches of uneasy silence. Something terrible had happened.

I forced myself up from the sofa’s sunken hold and looked from the window. Down at the gates where the archway met the street, it was Élise—standing with her arms folded, trying to talk her way past the officers barring the way. No one else was getting through, but Élise always found a way of getting what she wanted. A few minutes later, the slow tread of her feet echoed on the stairs, followed by the quiet click of the door.

She lingered at the threshold, before stepping out of the vestibule’s half-light and into the room, as if the night stirred in her wake. I followed her silhouette as it moved across the parquet floor toward the windows, where she paused in the deepest cut of blue, her reflection glinting against the glass. Her perfume reached me faintly—something warm and nostalgic, like the reminder of an old, fond memory.

“Still leaving your door unlocked, then?” she asked, not looking at me. Her voice was soft, almost careful, as if she didn’t want to disturb the silence between us.

“I didn’t mean to sleep.” I rubbed my eyes. “What did they say to you out there? Did you see anything?”

She shook her head, gaze fixed on the street below. “They ushered me past quickly. Hardly said a word—only that it was a man. Something sharp.”

She had that measured stillness again—like the morning in San Sebastián, after we’d both agreed to act like nothing had ever happened. She stood there for a moment, composed, the coat tracing the curve of her shoulder, her hair damp from the mist.

“I shouldn’t have come up,” she said at last, glancing toward me. “It’s not… Ce n’est pas raisonnable.” A phrase I could roughly translate myself—loosely, ’not a good idea’.

I nodded. “And yet, here you are.”

She smiled, just barely. “Yes. I’m here.”

Outside, a siren wailed once, then died. The Seine moved dark and indifferent below. She crossed to nearby bookcase and paused, brushing the spines until her hand rested on a Baudelaire sagging against The Gospel of Mary. She used to tease me about pairing books like that—sin and scripture on the same shelf. But that was before San Sebastián, before we convinced ourselves—our judgment influenced by a clouded haze of Gran Reserva Rioja—that whatever we had between us had to be buried, because sometimes desire has a way of eclipsing everything, leaving no room for anything else.

Our love affair lasted six months. A trip initially meant for me to work, but Élise, swept up in her own excitement, had joined me in a search of artistic inspiration. Instead, it became something else entirely—pulling us into what felt increasingly inevitable.

It began with a night train to Lyon, a half-broken hotel lock, the look she gave me in the mirror as she adjusted her scarf. From there the weeks tumbled into months—Lyon, Angoulême, San Sebastián. The days became blurred by late mornings and slow awakenings, conversations over endless walks, music and dancing, and bursts of laughter met with reckless abandon—shutting out the rest of the world. Six months where nothing else mattered. And then it ended.

In San Sebastián something shifted. The light was still golden on the water, but her warmth had drawn inward, her words fewer, her stillness heavier. It was there, in the hush of that city, that we set our boundaries—fragile lines meant to hold back what we already knew could easily draw us back into its gravity. Now, only rules remain in its place: stay in touch, don’t stay overnight, don’t speak of that time, and never—ever—meet after midnight.

The parquet creaked as she shifted near the window. Élise’s voice came, soft and low: “Do you think it was someone from the building?”

“I don’t really know anything yet—I only just woke up.”

She turned fully now, arms drawn tight across her chest.

“How did you get past them?” I asked.

Élise shrugged. “They asked me who I knew. I gave them your name before I even thought. I told them I’d be right upstairs if they needed me—it just seemed easier to agree.”

I joined her at her side, leaving just a breath of space between us. We both gazed down blankly toward the commotion below. My eyes drew to the police tape snapping in the wind, but my thoughts stayed fixed on her closeness beside me.

“You were nearby?” I asked carefully.

She gave another small shrug. “Yes. Teaching a night class across the river.”

“Still at the atelier, then?”

She nodded. “Three days a week. The rest… my own work. Not very productive lately.”

“You say that every time, and then it just so happens you pull out something profound.”

Her half-smile curled again. “You’re still good at flattery.”

I looked away before she could read my eyes. “You know I always mean it with you.”

She leaned closer to the glass, her breath fogging a faint circle. “This city feels heavier tonight.”

“Maybe it’s the stillness,” I said.

“Or the moon,” she added. “It affects more than just the tides.”

We fell quiet. The air thickened with the weight of everything left unsaid.

She moved away from the window, pausing briefly by the sketchbook I’d left open on top of the small bookshelf. After a moment, she lowered herself to the far end of the sofa, settling with a quiet reluctance.

“I’ve missed this,” she said gently. “Not just you. This… being still in a room like this.”

I returned to the sofa, settling beside her leaving a careful distance between us. “I’ve missed it too. I wasn’t expecting you, but I’m glad you came.”

“I wasn’t sure I would,” she admitted. “But walking here… it felt like something was drawing me toward you. And when the police stopped me—then let me through—it felt like a confirmation.”

“Something?”

She flashed a half-teasing look. “You think too logically to believe in signs.”

“Not when you’re around.”

We both smiled. The moment felt familiar. Almost safe.

Our eyes met, neither of us looked away. She tugged at her sleeve, making a small adjustment before smoothing it back into place. As I shifted, our hands brushed for an instant. Her eyes found mine again. The contact was brief, hardly anything—but I wondered if she had taken it for more.

She leaned, just barely—the space between us tightened. She drew a breath as if to speak, but no words came.

Then a knock. Three sharp raps, firm and official.

We pulled back, the moment interrupted but not gone.

“Mr. Wells?” a voice came muffled through the door. “It’s the police. We have a few questions.”

Élise looked at me, her expression unreadable. Her hand remained near mine for a moment longer, as if to say: not yet.

Before I could answer, the brass handle turned. The door swung inward as a man filled the doorway—not with size but with presence. His coat hung loose on his frame, shoulders sloping from years of carrying too much. His hair had thinned at the crown, dark circles cupping his eyes. Once, maybe, he’d been handsome—the kind of officer who caught smiles on the street. Now his face was carved by late nights and harder truths.

“Mr. Wells?” His voice was flat, official. “Inspecteur Vernier.”

We both stood, slowly. Élise remained near the sofa, folding her arms again.

Vernier stepped inside without waiting, bringing the smell of cigarettes with him. His eyes skimmed the room—the open window, the half-empty glass on the table, the slouched book spines. A subtle twitch passed through one eye as he stopped with his back to the door, positioning himself neatly between me and any exit. Too deliberate to be coincidence.

“You live here alone?”

“Yes.”

He scribbled on a worn notepad, barely bothering to meet my eyes, as if the effort wasn’t worth it.

“You were here all evening?”

I hesitated. “Pretty much.”

“Pretty much,” he repeated, glancing up. His eyes remained fixed, as if waiting for the rest.

“I fell asleep on the sofa,” I said finally. “Didn’t leave the apartment.”

He looked over to Élise, as if expecting some kind of confirmation. She held his look but offered nothing.

“And the gate downstairs—supposed to be locked? It wasn’t.”

“People leave it open sometimes,” I said. “They often switch off the lock for the cleaners or the maintenance crew. No one’s ever had an issue—it’s always felt safe enough.”

I felt Élise shift behind me. She moved closer, her hand pressing my forearm lightly—a gesture that looked casual but placed her between me and the inspector.

“She was outside when I arrived,” Vernier said, nodding toward her. “Not with you?”

Élise’s chin lifted. “No. They let me through after.”

Vernier’s pen scratched again. “So you can’t confirm he was here.”

“No,” she said simply, the blunt refusal cut sharper than a lie. She stood fixed, firmly holding her ground.

Vernier’s gaze returned to me. “A man was killed tonight. Mid-fifties. Alone. Something sharp, straight to the throat.” His tone was blunt, deliberate. “Just below your apartment. You didn’t see anything?”

“No.”

“Didn’t hear?”

“I heard… after. The voices.”

He stared at me longer than necessary.

Something tugged at me then—a thread of familiarity I couldn’t place. “Have we met before?” I asked.

Vernier frowned. “I don’t think so.” The dismissal was too sharp, carrying a quiet severity.

He wrote one last note, flipped shut the notepad. “I’ll be in touch.”

He left without offering his hand. The door clicked behind him.

Élise exhaled, her shoulders easing, though her eyes stayed anchored on the door’s aged patina. Her stance still held the trace of the shield she’d been.

Outside, the Seine continued its course, relentless.

The silence after Vernier’s departure stretched thin. Neither of us moved at first. The strike of his shoes on the stairwell faded, leaving only the low murmur of voices on the street below and a car rumbling distantly across the cobblestones.

Élise was the one to break it. “You didn’t answer him quickly,” she said quietly.

“I was asleep,” I replied. “I told him that.”

Her eyes flicked toward the sofa, then back to me. “For how long?”

“I don’t know. An hour or so. Maybe more.”

“You didn’t hear anything before? No sound through the window?”

Her tone was gentle, almost casual, but it tightened around me all the same.

I shook my head. “Like I said… I didn’t hear until I heard the voices.”

There was a change in her expression—not doubt, but unease—that carried more weight than her words, and it struck me unexpectedly.

“You’re not accusing me, are you?” My voice came out sharper than I meant.

Her lips parted, then softened. “No. Of course not.” She stepped closer, looking intently into my eyes. “I just… I want to make sure you’re safe. That’s all.”

I released a tension I hadn’t realised I was holding since the inspector left. “But why tonight?”

She hesitated, her eyes drifting toward the window where the blue light still pulsed below. “I don’t know… I felt—something. I couldn’t go home and sit worrying about you. Maybe I shouldn’t have come.”

“Either way, I’m glad you did.”

She lowered her eyes, and the quiet shift in her expression was all I needed.

She turned then, slow, as if fighting the choice. “It’s late,” she murmured. “I should go.”

I wanted to ask her to stay, but the atmosphere in the room had already shifted. She always knew when to leave, when the charge between us grew unsteady.

At the door, she paused. For a moment her hand rested on the frame, her back to me. “Julian…” Her voice caught, almost imperceptibly. “Be careful.”

And then she was gone, the quiet click of the door resonated louder than the inspector’s knock had.

The room always felt emptier when she left, as though her absence carried more weight than her presence.

I stood there in her wake—the room left shaped by her energy. Silence. Then the sound outside caught me again—boots on wet stone, radios spitting static. My thoughts turned brittle and ominous, like the hush before glass shatters.

I shook myself from the brief trance and returned to the room, a faint thread of jazz emerging from the old stereo in the corner—ever-present but buried beneath everything else. The brass was warm, slurred, unmistakably French—the kind of record I might’ve picked up in a Montparnasse flea market years ago and never stopped playing. Tonight, the sound felt out of place, its sentiment at odds with the room.

My eyes landed on a photograph, set on a shelf where two book spines parted, its old wallet crease keeping it upright. Élise once remarked on my keeping it, though she never asked me to put it away. In the dim light, the image looked warped, edges curling, the faces inside appearing closer than they should have been. The music bent toward it, as if finding communion.

I moved to the window. A penetrating breeze seemed to shift and steal whatever secrets the night had spilled. A pair of officers leaned against their car, smoke from a cigarette drifting upward.

I pressed my palm against the cold glass. The inspector’s questions played over: Mostly? Door unlocked? Didn’t hear anything? They lodged like grit beneath the skin.

I swallowed hard. I was not a man given to self-doubt. I knew who I was—or thought I knew. I had no taste for violence. And yet… the possibility crept in, not from within but from the way others looked at me tonight: the inspector, and even Élise.

“Not me,” I muttered at my reflection in the glass, testing the words like a defence I shouldn’t need.

The words sounded thin, unconvincing.

The music played on, a trumpet line bending just slightly out of tune. Élise’s exit lingered in the air. She always left like that—contained, inevitable, compelled by some rule I couldn’t see. Each time it hollowed me the same way. I should be used to it by now. I never was.

I rubbed my face, trying to shake the fog that clung since waking. Was it only the dull blur of sleep? Or had minutes—hours—slipped further than I thought?

The face in the reflection stared back at me, distorted by raindrops. High above the bank opposite, the sky was blank beyond the thinning mist—void of a moon. For a moment the city behind my image seemed to tilt—the police below, the sirens echoing—like I’d seen it all before. Élise leaving, the door clicking shut, my hand against the window. It felt like a loop, rehearsed.

I blinked hard. Just fatigue. Nothing more.

The saxophone dipped lower. I crossed the room, turned the volume down until the notes barely brushed the air. I went to the sink, took a glass and turned the faucet. It squealed, releasing a thin stream of water. I drank, the coolness re-centring me.

It was still in my hand as I decided to head out. I set it down carefully, not wanting to disturb the lull the apartment had settled into. The music whispered on—a muted trumpet line, mournful, hesitant—as I reached for my old field jacket hanging on the chair. Its waxed cotton, softened and weathered by years of constant travel, carried a history of its own—creases deep at the elbows, seams scarred, stubbornly enduring.

I pulled it on, smoothed the collar, and stepped to the door.

The stairwell smelled of damp stone, the murmuring voices growing clearer as I descended. Beyond the threshold, sudden bursts of light flared against the cobblestones, recording the scene piece by piece. It looked like they would be here all night. This wasn’t something you packed away quickly—a life had been stolen, and now the mechanics of procedure would grind until dawn.

I moved through the stone archway quietly, careful not to hurry, but not hesitating either. A young officer leaning against the wall glanced up from his notepad, his expression already too tired for the hour. One of his colleagues smoked near the cordon, the red ember flaring, while another caught my eye in brief acknowledgment, stepping aside to let me through. I gave them their space and walked out into the street.

Lying just beyond the iron gates, I caught sight of the body: half-concealed beneath a sheet turned sheer with the mist, clinging to the contours beneath—a shoulder, a knee, the slack curve of a face pressed against stone. The edges of the cloth had darkened, blood seeping outward like a shadow refusing to dry. A pair of shoes protruded, ordinary, worn. Someone had chosen them once, broken them in. Now they marked the end of everything. I didn’t pause. The glimpse was enough.

For a moment, my chest tightened—not because I thought I recognised the man, but because I thought of my father, gone young, leaving behind shoes by the door. The memory brushed me like a ghost. I looked away quickly, feeling shame for borrowing grief that wasn’t mine.

I crossed the street, moving toward the quay. The Seine lay ahead, carrying away the pulses of blue light from the patrol cars. Normally the city at night gave me comfort. Its vastness steadied me. Tonight, that balance felt altered; a strange stillness hung over it—uneasy, unfamiliar.

I walked on, waiting for the feeling to pass. At first, just a trace—the angles of the street wrong, the shadows stretched too far. Then it gathered weight. A shutter clapped shut behind me. A cat darted across the cobblestones.

I slowed at the embankment wall and placed a hand on the cold stone, looking out at the river. The water churned lazily, heavy, as though it knew what had happened. A trace of mist trailed my breath.

This walk was supposed to ease me, clear my head the way it always had. Yet I felt no lighter. If anything, the city held back, reminding me I didn’t belong as neatly as I believed.

Something moved above. I looked up. In one of the apartments across the street, a curtain had been pulled back just enough to reveal a face—or perhaps only the suggestion of one. Hovering a moment, then vanishing—the fabric drawn shut with deliberate finality. The sensation was immediate and cold. I was being watched.

I straightened, pulling my jacket tighter. For the first time, Paris felt sinister.

I turned back, retracing my steps toward my building. The streetlamps hummed, the voices of the officers blurring into an ebbing tide in my mind. The image of the body beneath the damp sheet clung to me, refusing to let go.

By the time I had reached the refuge of the building again, it was as if Paris wanted me gone but offered no sign. The street outside was quiet, too quiet. The police cars were gone. No cordon, no voices, no restless boots shifting on stone. Only wet cobbles catching the lamplight. The body was gone.

Weren’t these things meant to last hours, whole nights sometimes? My watch read half past two, yet I could’ve sworn it was only past midnight when I stepped out. Had I really been walking that long? Or had I lost track of time altogether?

I gathered myself and climbed the short flight of stairs to my door. It was shut—but not locked.

I was sure I’d turned the latch before I left. Or thought I had. My hand tightened on the handle, cool in my palm. For a moment I listened—nothing, only the hush of pipes somewhere deep in the walls. I pushed it open carefully.

The apartment stretched out before me. The leather sofa greeted me, angled toward the view of the river. Shadows pooled in the hallway toward the bedroom. To the left, the dining table caught a subtle glow, books piled and leaning on the shelves, and the sink beneath the windows still held its unwashed dishes.

Everything seemed in its place. But my eyes swept across it again, slower this time. That’s when I saw it.

On the dining table, near the chair where I could still picture Élise standing, lay a book of matches—the cheap kind you get free with a drink, creased at the spine, half-used. They weren’t mine. I never carried matches.

I crossed the floor, each step measured. The matchbook was damp at the edge, as though it had been dropped. I picked it up before I thought better.

There was writing scrawled on the back. A number, half-smudged, with a single word beneath it—seemingly indecipherable. I stared at it, pulse quickening, then realised too late what I was doing. My thumb had smudged the ink further. If this was evidence—if it had been left here, planted here—I’d just put myself all over it.

I dropped it onto the table, the sound louder than it should’ve been.

The ambience in the room felt off. The feeling I’d had out on the quay returned—the sensation of eyes that weren’t there. Watching. Waiting.

I locked the door, driving the barrel bolt hard until it echoed in the frame. Then I went to the counter, filled a glass with whisky, and stood by the window. Under the moonless sky, the river felt ever-aware.

I lifted the glass, drank, and let the burn steady me.

Something didn’t add up. Not the missing body. Not the unlocked door. Not the matchbook on my table. Least of all — me.