Beautiful strangers

Manon’s voice filled the dimly lit hall, carrying the weight of a bittersweet ballad — a song of love long gone, yet still burning in the quiet corners of her soul. Manon (singing): *"Je t'aime encore, mais c'est un feu sans flammes, Un écho lointain dans le fond de mon âme. Tes yeux, des étoiles que je ne peux atteindre, Et mes nuits, des poèmes que je ne peux peindre. Ton absence est un poison doux, une torture, Qui me consume, mais me rend la vie plus pure. J'ai gravé ton nom sur les murs de mon cœur, Un graffito d'amour dans un monde de rancœur. Nos souvenirs dansent dans les rues de Paris, Fantômes amoureux sous la pluie qui s'enfuit. Je cherche ton odeur dans le parfum du soir, Une mélodie brisée, un dernier espoir."* *(I still love you, but it’s a fire without flames, A distant echo in the depths of my soul. Your eyes, stars I cannot reach, And my nights, poems I cannot paint. Your absence is a sweet poison, a torture, That consumes me, yet makes my life more pure. I carved your name on the walls of my heart, A graffiti of love in a world of rancor. Our memories dance in the streets of Paris, Ghosts in love beneath the fleeing rain. I search for your scent in the perfume of evening, A broken melody, a final hope.)* Her voice trembled on the last note. Silence followed for a breath — then applause erupted like a wave. Audience: "BRAVO, Madame Dubois !" (Bravo, Madame Dubois!) Some even whistled. Manon bent in a graceful bow. Manon: "Mais voyons, tout ça, c’est pour vous, chers invités !" (Oh, come now, it’s all for you, dear guests!) She stepped down from the stage, the host thanking her warmly before a jazz band took over. She was radiant — her wavy black hair spilling over her shoulders, a glittering sapphire-blue dress hugging her figure, and a long black feather boa draped elegantly around her arms. Monsieur Roger approached, kissed her hand with old-fashioned gallantry. Roger: "Votre performance était magnifique, Madame Manon, tout comme vous-même." (Your performance was magnificent, Madame Manon, just like you yourself.) She smiled politely, nodded her thanks, and took a seat at a nearby table. When the evening finally drew to a close, she slipped outside into the cold and hailed a taxi. Driver: "Bien, madame… mais pourquoi un taxi, madame ?" (All right, madame… but why take a taxi, madame?) Manon frowned. Manon: "Ce n’est pas vos affaires." (None of your business.) The driver pressed his lips together and started the car. Snow fell steadily, blurring the lights outside her window. She had taken off her black gloves, and her red-painted lips parted slightly as she sighed. Halfway to Montmartre, something struck her. Manon: "Merde !" (Shit!) "Arrêtez ! J’ai oublié quelque chose." (Stop! I forgot something.) Driver: "Quoi donc, madame ?" (What is it, madame?) Manon: "Mon portefeuille… pouvez-vous faire demi-tour ?" (My wallet… can you turn around?) Driver: "Il faudra payer, madame." (You’ll have to pay, madame.) She exhaled sharply, opened the door, and stepped out without another word. Driver: "Et le paiement ?" (And the fare?) Manon turned, flashed him her middle finger, and walked away. The driver muttered under his breath. Driver: "Quelle garce hypocrite…" (What a two-faced bitch…) He drove past her, splashing muddy water from a puddle onto her dress. Manon: "Imbécile !" (Idiot!) Pulling her faux fur coat tighter, she trudged along the snowy street. Passersby glanced at her, whispering. Woman: "Regarde, on dirait Manon…" (Look, it’s Manon…) Man: "Mais non, elle doit être à son hôtel de luxe." (No, she must be in her luxury hotel.) Woman: "Mais regarde bien, Nicolas…" (But look closely, Nicolas…) Man: "Assez, il faut préparer le dîner." (Enough, we need to make dinner.) Manon sighed. Fame was exhausting — everyone knew your face, even when you wished they didn’t. Her heels clicked on the icy pavement until she saw a pack of stray dogs ahead. They sniffed the ground, but when they noticed her, they started toward her. Panic shot through her. She turned and walked quickly, but the dogs followed. Manon: "Saletés de bestioles !" (Filthy beasts!) She began to run. Her heel snapped, sending her stumbling. Kicking off both shoes, she sprinted barefoot in the snow. Dogs: "Ouaf ! Ouaf !" (Woof! Woof!) Their barking echoed down the street. She vaulted over a manhole cover, gasping for breath — then froze. One dog blocked her path. She stepped back, ready to flee another way — but the ground beneath her disappeared. Manon: "Putain !" (Fuck!) She tried to grab the edge, her hands slipping on the frozen metal, and fell into darkness. Sirens wailed somewhere far above as consciousness slipped away. Manon opened her eyes to the dim light of a hospital room. White walls. The distant hum of some ancient heating system. Her head throbbed. What am I doing in a hospital? she thought. Ah… my head… — Oh, vous êtes réveillé. (Oh, you’re awake.) A man stood by her bed, dressed in an oddly old-fashioned suit, like something from a black-and-white film. Who was he? The last thing she remembered… falling into the darkness of a sewer. — Pardonnez-moi… qui êtes-vous ? (Forgive me… who are you?) — Ah, je ne suis personne… juste quelqu’un qui a appelé l’ambulance. Vous étiez dans le coma depuis trois mois. Maintenant… je peux m’en aller. Docteur, s’il vous plaît ! (Ah, I’m nobody… just someone who called the ambulance. You’ve been in a coma for three months. Now… I can leave. Doctor, please!) Three months?! The thought made her stomach twist. My fans… my work… everything I’ve missed! A man in a white coat entered, scanning a chart. — Ah, vous voilà enfin réveillé, Monsieur Louis Durand. Je dois informer votre famille de cette bonne nouvelle. (Ah, you’re finally awake, Monsieur Louis Durand. I must inform your family of the good news.) Louis Durand? Family? Her parents had been dead for years. And “Louis” was certainly not her name. The man in the suit slipped away, and Manon became aware of an odd discomfort low in her body. She reached down—pain shot through her. Of course, she had fallen… five meters at least. Ignoring the soreness, she pulled herself out of bed and stepped into the corridor. The air smelled of disinfectant and dust, like an old building that time had forgotten. People’s clothing was strange—long coats, hats, muted colors. No one seemed to notice her until the doctor’s voice cut through the hallway: — Monsieur Louis n’est pas dans sa chambre ! (Monsieur Louis is not in his room!) Panic swelled in her chest. She ran, every step a stab of pain. Her breathing grew ragged. Something felt… different. Smaller. She touched her chest—it felt flatter. She froze, then her hand moved lower. What she felt made her gasp in horror. — AAAAAAH ! Qu’est-ce que c’est que cette diablerie ?! Qu’est-ce que vous m’avez fait, bande de sectaires ! (AAAAAH! What is this devilry?! What have you done to me, you cultists?!) She tore down the hallway, rounded a corner, and came face-to-face with a group at the entrance. An older woman stepped forward. — Excusez-moi, mademoiselle, pourriez-vous m’indiquer la chambre de Monsieur Louis Durand ? (Excuse me, young lady, could you tell me where Monsieur Louis Durand’s room is?) — Bien sûr… et vous êtes ? (Of course… and you are?) — Sa tante. (His aunt.) The nurse pointed them in the right direction. The group turned—only to meet her eyes directly. — Louis ? Mais qu’est-ce que tu fais ici ? On venait te voir. (Louis? What are you doing here? We were coming to see you.) — Désolé, vous devez me confondre avec quelqu’un d’autre. (Sorry, you must have me confused with someone else.) She bolted for the exit, but strong hands grabbed her. The doctor’s stern face loomed above. — Oh là là… Monsieur Louis, comme c’est triste d’en arriver là… (Oh dear… Monsieur Louis, how sad that we’ve come to this…) Darkness swallowed her again. This time, she knew the haze was chemical—she had taken enough sleeping pills in the past to recognize the feeling. ✦••┈┈┈┈ 𝓛𝓸𝓼𝓽 𝓲𝓷 𝓣𝓲𝓶𝓮 ┈┈┈┈••✦ When she awoke again, she wasn’t alone. A dozen eyes watched her. The woman from before stood in the center. — Louis… pourquoi courir ? Nous pouvons venir à toi. (Louis… why run? We can come to you.) The doctor intervened gently. — Pardonnez-moi, Madame Madeleine… mais votre neveu a une amnésie temporaire. Il ne se souvient probablement pas de vous. (Forgive me, Madame Madeleine… but your nephew has temporary amnesia. He probably doesn’t remember you.) Madeleine nodded, her gaze softening. The others tried to look compassionate. Manon stared back, convinced she was dreaming—or dead—and trapped in some strange afterlife disguised as an old year. — Pardonnez-moi… mais qui êtes-vous ? Et… quelle année sommes-nous ? (Forgive me… but who are you? And… what year is it?) A tall, severe man sighed. — Nous sommes ta famille, Louis… pardonne-nous de ne pas avoir pu empêcher cela. C’est notre faute. (We are your family, Louis… forgive us for not preventing this. It’s our fault.) — D’accord… je vous pardonne. Mais… quelle année ? (Alright… I forgive you. But… what year is it?) — 1930. Her breath caught. Nineteen-thirty. That far back. Too far. The room swayed with the absurdity of it. She had never liked old-fashioned anything—not even the countryside—and now she was surrounded by it. Introductions began. — Tonton Louis, je suis Marie et voici mon frère Étienne. J’ai douze ans, il en a dix. (Uncle Louis, I’m Marie and this is my brother Étienne. I’m twelve, he’s ten.) — Et moi, je suis Justine, ta sœur aînée. Ce sont mes enfants. (And I’m Justine, your older sister. These are my children.) — Et moi, son mari, Antoine. (And I’m her husband, Antoine.) — Moi, ton frère cadet, Pierre. (Me, your younger brother, Pierre.) — Et moi, ton frère aîné, Jean-Baptiste, et voici ma femme, Céline. (And me, your older brother, Jean-Baptiste, and here is my wife, Céline.) — Enchantés… nous ne pensions pas que tu te réveillerais. (Nice to meet you… we didn’t think you’d wake up.) Finally, Madeleine smiled faintly. — Et moi, ta tante Madeleine. Bientôt, Élisabeth viendra du travail. Tu es professeur de littérature. (And I’m your aunt Madeleine. Soon, Élisabeth will come from work. You’re a literature teacher.) Manon’s inner voice groaned. A teacher? Me? School had always been the opposite of her world. Still, she looked at their faces—most were pleasant, even kind. Pierre was strikingly handsome. I wonder… is my new face handsome too? They began telling her everything that had happened while she was… someone else.