The snow fell in fine, silent drifts over the French countryside, coating the trees and iron gates of Château Beaumont like sugar on marzipan. A quiet winter had seized Paris and its surrounding provinces, and with it came the hush of memory — a stillness that whispered to those who once called these lands their own.
Élodie Beaumont pressed her gloved hand to the frosted window of the carriage, her breath clouding the glass. She hadn't seen the château in six years — not since that final morning when the servants packed hastily, whispers of German tanks and falling cities thick in the halls. The war had carved a canyon through her life, leaving fractured years and unanswered letters behind.
And yet here she was — returning to the place that held everything she had lost.
The carriage came to a gentle stop before the grand, ivy-wrapped gates. A wrought-iron crest bearing the Beaumont sigil, faded and rusting, greeted her like a scolding elder. Her heart beat against her ribs as the driver opened the door and offered a hand. She stepped out slowly, the crunch of snow beneath her boots grounding her in reality.
The gates creaked open with a reluctant groan. Beyond them, the long, winding path to the main estate stretched ahead — flanked by naked trees, their skeletal branches swaying like mourners at a funeral.
The château loomed into view, its once-gleaming spires dulled by age and weather. Windows that had once flickered with candlelight now stared back like empty eyes. Ivy crawled up the eastern tower, clinging to crumbling stone. The gardens, once sculpted into symmetrical perfection, lay wild and untamed. A strange ache settled in her chest — part sorrow, part guilt, and something she couldn't name.
She stood at the grand entrance, staring up at the massive oak doors, half expecting her mother to appear with arms outstretched, a silk scarf trailing behind her. But no one came. Only the wind answered — soft and cold, curling around her neck like a warning.
With effort, she pushed open the doors.
The scent hit her first: a mix of lavender oil, old parchment, and disuse. Dust motes danced in the pale light that filtered through the stained-glass windows above. The marble floor stretched out before her like an echo of better times — cracked in places but still proud.
And there it was — the grand chandelier, hanging still and silent. Élodie paused beneath it, gazing up at the thousands of tiny crystals, now dulled with time. Once, it had sparkled so brightly that she used to spin beneath it until she grew dizzy, pretending to be a ballerina or a queen.
Now it was just another relic.
She removed her gloves slowly, fingers trembling as they met the cool air. She needed to see the rooms — the salon, the library, the west wing — but something else tugged at her attention. A noise.
Faint. A rustle of paper?
She followed it.
It led her to the drawing room — her father's old sanctuary. The door stood ajar, and inside, a soft golden light flickered from a desk lamp.
A man sat at the massive oak writing table, papers and books strewn before him like a battlefield. He was tall, lean, dressed in a dark wool coat. His collar was slightly open, revealing a threadbare scarf. His hands — large, strong — held a brittle envelope delicately, like it might shatter at his touch.
He looked up.
Their eyes locked.
He stood immediately, surprise painted across his face. "Pardon — I didn't think anyone—"
"You shouldn't be here," Élodie said, her voice steady but low. "This is private property."
"I had permission," the man replied quickly. "Madame Beaumont granted me access to the estate archives."
She blinked. "My mother passed away last December."
A silence spread like frost between them.
He swallowed. "I… I didn't know. I'm sorry."
Élodie stepped inside, her eyes narrowing. "Who are you?"
"Julien Marceau. I'm a journalist. Historical research, mostly. I'm writing about the Resistance movement in Paris — your father's name came up."
That name.
That wound.
"Why now?" she asked.
He hesitated. "Because some truths take time to surface."
She studied him. He looked familiar — not in a generic way, but in a buried, aching way.
"You… were you ever here as a boy?" she asked, heart skipping.
A flicker of recognition crossed his face.
"You had a red ribbon in your hair," he said softly. "And I gave you a daisy. You said you'd press it in your diary and keep it forever."
A flush rose in her cheeks.
"I don't remember," she lied.
He smiled gently. "I do."
The silence returned, but it was different now. Charged. Layered.
She looked away first.
"You can stay," she said. "For now. But if I find one paper out of place—"
"You won't," he promised.
She turned and left, but her hands trembled slightly as she reached for the railing of the staircase.
Julien Marceau. The boy who once climbed apple trees with her. The man who now stood among her father's shadows, looking for answers.
And maybe — just maybe — he was the reason she had come home at all.