I walk through the farmhouse hallway, my legs carrying me toward the staircase while my mind remains trapped in the conversation I just escaped.
Estienne's words echo through my skull like a bell that won't stop ringing.
The stress took years off his life. The doctors said his heart would be twice as strong now if the anxiety hadn't worn him down.
I did that.
The afternoon light slants through the windows, casting long shadows across the worn wooden floors.
My room waits at the top of those stairs, and all I want is to close the door behind me and fall apart in private. But the universe, it seems, has other plans.
Voices drift from the kitchen doorway, and I slow my steps instinctively.
"You burned that roast so badly, the smoke alarm didn't stop screaming for twenty minutes." The voice is male, aged but warm. "The neighbors thought the house was on fire. Claude came running over with a bucket of water."
"That was twenty years ago, you impossible old man." A woman's voice—Margaux, I realize with a jolt. "And the only reason I burned it was because you kept distracting me with stories about your youth."
"My stories are excellent. You should be honored I share them with you."
"Your stories are the same five tales you've told me a thousand times, and each telling adds another heroic detail that never happened."
I freeze mid-step.
The man laughing in that doorway is Bastien Côté. I recognize his profile now—the same strong jaw Estienne inherited, the same way of tilting his head when he's amused.
He's older than I remember, his hair gone entirely silver, his posture slightly stooped. But his eyes are sharp and bright, and when he smiles at Margaux, decades fall away from his face.
This is the man I destroyed.
This is the man whose trust I exploited, whose cellars I toured with false credentials and false promises, whose pride I weaponized against him.
My feet refuse to move forward, and moving backward would draw attention. The staircase is directly past the kitchen doorway—there is no other path to my room.
I press myself into the alcove behind a tall cabinet, my spine flat against the wall, my heart slamming against my ribs so hard I'm certain they can hear it.
"You burned every roast for the first five years," Bastien continues, his voice rich with affection. "I thought I would starve to death before you figured out the timing on that old oven."
"Then why did you keep asking me to cook for you?" Margaux's tone softens into tenderness that makes my chest ache. "You had a perfectly good kitchen at the main house. A cook who actually knew what she was doing."
"Because her company was terrible and yours was not." Bastien's reply carries the weight of a confession repeated so many times it has worn smooth. "Besides, I liked watching you fight with that oven."
"I did conquer it eventually."
"You replaced it with a new one. That's surrender."
"That's wisdom, you stubborn fool."
I hold my breath, my lungs burning, my eyes fixed on the cabinet's edge where I can just barely see their silhouettes.
Bastien reaches for Margaux's hand, and the gesture is so gentle, so practiced, that I understand this has been their rhythm for years. Decades, perhaps.
"Do you remember the night of the first frost that year?" Bastien asks, his voice dropping lower. "When we thought we might lose the entire eastern block?"
"You were pacing the kitchen at three in the morning, convinced everything was ruined." Margaux's laugh is soft, intimate. "I made you coffee and told you that if the vines could survive you hovering over them for forty years, they could survive one cold night."
"You were right, as always. The vines pulled through, and so did I."
"You would have driven yourself into the ground if I hadn't been there to drag you back."
"That's why I need you, ma chérie." Bastien lifts her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles with old-world courtliness. "You are the only person in this world who tells me when I'm being a fool and makes me grateful for the correction."
My throat tightens.
This is what love looks like after decades—warmth that sustains and builds something lasting from shared meals and sleepless nights and the ordinary courage of facing each day together.
I had a chance at this once. A single summer when a blue-eyed boy taught me about patience and care.
And I repaid that gift by destroying his family's livelihood.
Bastien finally releases Margaux's hand and shuffles toward the back of the house. I watch his silhouette disappear around the corner, and only then do I allow myself to exhale.
My legs are trembling. My palms are slick with sweat. But the path to the stairs is clear now, and all I have to do is move quickly before anyone else appears.
I step out of the alcove.
Henri rounds the corner and nearly collides with me.
His eyes narrow immediately, suspicion sharpening his weathered features. I stumble backward, my heart lurching into my throat.
"What are you doing lurking in corners?" he demands, his voice low and flat.
I force a casual smile onto my face, though my muscles fight the expression.
"I was coming to ask Margaux if she needed help in the kitchen, but I heard her talking with Monsieur Côté. It sounded like a private moment, and I did not want to intrude."
Henri studies me for a long beat, his gaze traveling from my face to my posture to the alcove I just emerged from.
I can see him cataloging every detail, filing it away alongside all the other pieces that don't quite fit.
"You seem to have a habit of appearing in unexpected places," he observes, his tone carrying no inflection that would tell me whether he believes my explanation.
"It is a small house, Monsieur Vasseur." I keep my voice steady through sheer force of will. "There are only so many places one can be."
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. For a moment, I think he's going to press further, demand answers I cannot give.
But then he grunts—that same dismissive sound I've come to recognize as his version of a temporary truce—and walks past me toward the kitchen.
I don't wait to see if he looks back.
My feet carry me up the stairs two at a time, my hand gripping the railing hard enough to whiten my knuckles.
The door to my room swings open under my desperate push, and I close it behind me with more force than necessary.
Only then do I allow myself to lean against the wood and slide down until I'm sitting on the floor, my knees drawn to my chest, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
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