When the shadows call

Paris, one twenty-four in the morning.

Last night's rain had left its scent on the building's stairwell—the smell of wet stone, the dampness of old walls, and the neighbor downstairs's cigarette smoke. Lucille climbed the last step and let out a loud breath.

Fifth floor.

Finally.

Her leather bag, which still had three installments left to pay off, thumped against her shoulder with every step, and a smaller case inside kept bumping her side. Probably one of her lipsticks. Or her brush. Or whatever else had gotten lost in that bag, something she hadn't been aware of for a long time.

She slid the key into the lock. Turned it. The old building's lock gave a reluctant click and opened.

Lucille stepped inside.

It was dark. Not completely dark—the streetlight's glow slipped through the thin, flowered kitchen curtain and cast a yellow rectangle across the floor and table.

And right in the middle of that light, a piece of paper lay.

Lucille closed the door. Dropped her bag in the middle of the hallway.

"Later."

She kicked off her heels with the toe of her other foot. One fell against the wall; the other slid quietly under the shoe rack.

"That too, later."

Her thin socks slipped on the cold kitchen tiles. She walked to the table and picked up the paper.

At that moment, the scent of vanilla and orange reached her.

Her mother's perfume.

Lucille wrinkled her nose slightly. She hated that perfume. Not because of the smell, but because of the memories. Her mother wore it whenever she had a romantic date, went to a party, or decided to stay out with her friends until midnight.

Lucille unfolded the paper. Her mother's handwriting was as hurried as ever—large, slanted, messy letters, as if the writer remembered mid-sentence that she had something more important to do.

Lulu, Jean and Sophie and I went to the cabaret in Montmartre. We're not coming back tonight. Maybe I'll be very late. Don't worry. Get yourself something to eat. And no, I don't mean that packaged macaroni you had last night. There's a bowl of chicken salad in the back of the fridge. Mom.

Lucille smiled. Then she noticed something added at the bottom in red pen: And please put those three makeup brushes you left by the bathroom sink in their proper holder. They're dripping on the tiles.

Lucille stared at the sentence for a few seconds. "Really?" She lowered the paper. "I just got home." As if her mother stood before her, eyebrow raised, waiting for a response. Lucille muttered under her breath: "Fine, Mom."

She set the note aside. Opened the fridge. The smell of pickles, cheese, and something she chose not to identify hit her face. "Ugh." She found the salad bowl. Grabbed a silver spoon. Standing right there, she started eating. The chicken was cold. The mayonnaise had turned a bit too tangy. And if a professional chef had seen it, they wouldn't have called it salad. But Lucille was hungry. So it didn't matter.

She pulled out her phone. She had saved fourteen videos on TikTok. She'd watched three of them; the other eleven were for later—a later that would probably arrive five minutes after dinner. She opened the first video. A girl with glossy hair and gray-blue eyelids sat in front of the camera, talking about nose contouring.

Lucille held the spoon in midair. "Wait." She rewound the video, watched it again, and zoomed in on the brush on the screen. 402. She immediately opened her phone's notes and typed: Brush 402. Need it. Stared at the sentence for a few seconds. Then added: Really need it. Paused. Deleted "really." Rewrote: Probably need it. Smiled. "That's more reasonable."

She finished her salad and headed to the bedroom.

Lucille's bedroom looked more like a place where objects struggled to survive. Clean and dirty clothes were tangled on the bed. Two university textbooks lay wedged under the pillow. A sock dangled from the edge of the chair, and three empty face-mask bottles stood in a row next to the laptop. On the floor, a pair of earrings that she had searched for last week sat. She didn't celebrate finding them; she just said, "Ah."

Aristotle's Poetics lay open on the bed, page forty-three. A small cherry lipstick stain marked the corner of the page. Lucille picked up the book, looked at the stain, looked at the book, then back at the stain. "Well, at least it's personal now." She closed the book and dropped it on the floor. Problem solved.

She sat on the edge of the bed and opened Instagram. One of her classmates had posted a story—Café de Flore. A few people sat around a table, apparently discussing "the death of the author." Lucille stared at the image for a few moments. "Two thirty in the morning." Next story: coffee. A book. A philosophical quote. Next story: the same people again.

Lucille lowered her phone. She was also a writing student. She'd just started university. And she still didn't know if she was truly made to be a writer or if she just liked the idea of being one. She couldn't tell the difference. And right now, she didn't have the energy to figure it out.

Her phone buzzed. New notification. Special discount—tonight only. Lucille looked at the screen. "No." Three seconds passed. She opened the store. "Just looking."

It was two thirty in the morning. Lucille had ordered three lip balms. She stared at the ceiling. "Well." She tossed the phone onto the bed. "Three isn't a big deal." She tried to convince herself. She failed. She got up from the bed and walked to the window. Pushed the curtain aside.

Lucille took a deep breath and let her tangled hair fall over her bare shoulders.

She stood behind the window, looking down at the wet, nearly empty street below, when her phone vibrated on the bed.

The familiar melody of "Non, je ne regrette rien" filled the room.

Lucille walked back to the bed. Her mother had chosen that ringtone for Jane's calls, and so much time had passed since she'd set it that neither of them remembered why it was still there. Of course, her mother had a reason: "Jane is just like Édith Piaf—she screams and regrets nothing." Lucille always said that was the worst metaphor she'd ever heard. And Jane laughed every time she heard it.

With a careless motion, Lucille pulled the phone from under the blanket. The screen lit up.

Jane ❤️

Lucille answered and, before she even properly placed the phone to her ear, said: "Jane? It's three-thirty. I just managed to fall asleep and—"

Jane's voice spilled out from the other end like a whirlwind: "Lulu! Lulu! Guess what happened!"

Lucille closed her eyes. "What? Did the central library catch fire?"

"No, you idiot!"

Lucille smiled. "Then tell me."

"I was just coming back from the library. I went to that café by the Seine we always go to, and—Lulu, I saw a guy."

Lucille raised an eyebrow. "Uh-huh."

"No, not 'uh-huh'!"

"Jane, you see a guy every week."

"This one's different!"

"They're all different."

"No, this one is really different!"

Lucille let out a short laugh.

Jane took a deep breath, as if about to deliver a report on a historical event. "Lulu, his hair was sandy blond. His eyes were something between green and honey. He wore a gray jacket with black pants, I think. He was really tall."

Lucille looked back at the street. "So?"

"So? When he smiled, the whole world became more beautiful!"

"Then you should definitely get married."

"Shut up."

"Don't forget my invitation."

"Lulu!"

Lucille laughed.

Jane continued, undeterred: "I found out he just moved to this city. A girl at the next table was talking to her friend. She said he came to Paris this week. Oh, I hope I see him at university."

"Did you get his name?"

"No."

"Then it's too early to pick names for your children."

"Lulu!"

"Okay, okay." Lucille yawned. "Anything else?"

"Nothing... just that—" Jane's voice cut off for a moment. Then, with more excitement, she added: "Oh! You should have seen his shoes!"

Lucille, still looking at the street, said: "No."

"Louis Vuitton. That black velvet model with the gold strap. The same one we saw in the Rue de Rivoli window last month."

Lucille replied, almost impatiently: "Yeah." Then she paused. Something at the end of the street had moved. A shadow. It emerged from the corner by the old bakery.

Lucille stood up straight.

A man.

Tall. Very tall. His steps were slow, unhurried—so slow it seemed he had no reason to rush in the entire world.

Jane was still talking. "And then imagine his jacket also—"

Lucille moved the phone slightly away from her ear. Her gaze was fixed on the man. "Jane."

"Hmm?"

"His shoes..."

"What?"

"What did his shoes look like?"

Jane laughed. "Didn't I tell you? Louis Vuitton. That special model, black velvet with—"

"With a gold strap?"

Silence. Longer this time. "...Yeah."

Lucille stepped closer to the window.

The man was now under one of the streetlamps. Gray jacket. Black pants. Sandy blond hair.

Jane said softly, "Lulu?"

Lucille said nothing.

"How did you know?"

The man crossed the street. One step. Two steps. Three steps. And now he stood right in front of their building.

Lucille gripped the phone tighter. Her voice dropped to almost a whisper. "Because..." The man stopped. His head tilted up slightly, as if something in the building had caught his attention. Lucille held her breath. "...he's coming toward our building."

On the other end, a few seconds of silence. Then Jane's voice exploded: "What?!"

Lucille didn't even answer.

The man stood in front of the building's metal door. From the fifth floor, she couldn't see his face clearly. But it was strange. Very strange. Lucille felt she had seen this scene before. Not this man. Not this street. Something about his stance was familiar—in his shoulders, in the way his hands hung by his sides. As if she were watching a memory that had never happened in her life.

Jane shouted again: "Lulu! Don't open the door! Do you hear me? It's three-thirty in the morning! He's a stranger!"

But Lucille no longer listened to her words. Her gaze was still fixed below. The man raised his hand. Lucille instinctively stepped back. Then—

Ding-dong.

The old building bell rang through the silence of the apartment. Lucille froze.

Jane said, her voice lower now: "Lulu..."

The bell rang again.

Ding-dong.

Lucille looked at the dark hallway. And for the first time that night, she wished her mother were home.

Lucille stood there for a few moments.

Jane was still saying something through the phone, but her voice was no longer clear.

Lucille's gaze fell on the intercom by the door. She hesitated, then stepped forward. She picked up the handset and pressed the answer button.

"Yes?"

For a few seconds, only faint static came through the speaker.

Then the man's voice came—calm, deep, and unexpectedly polite. "Madame Rovanière?"

Lucille furrowed her brow. "Yes? What can I do for you?"

The man paused briefly. "I need a fortune reading."

Lucille blinked. Her gaze unconsciously drifted to her mother's note on the table.

The man's voice continued: "I heard that Madame Madeleine Rovanière is the best fortune-teller in this city. Apparently, many people come to her for readings... I even heard she has many followers."

Lucille said slowly, "My mother isn't home right now."

"I know."

Lucille paused. "...You know?"

The man's voice turned slightly more serious for the first time. "Yes."

A short silence fell between them.

Then the man said, "But please, Madame Rovanière... this matter is truly important to me."

Lucille said nothing.

The man took a quiet breath. "It's a matter of life and death."