My chest tightened.
I had put this off all day—let myself wander through Rose’s Paris, chasing beauty and meaning and hope like talismans I could hold up against the truth. But hope didn’t answerquestions. And it didn’t explain how my sister had gone from walking these streets to lying still in a hospital bed.
I pulled my coat tighter around me and stepped inside.
The air changed immediately. Cooler. Sterile. It smelled faintly of antiseptic and something medicinal I couldn’t identify. The lighting was harsh, fluorescent, unforgiving. A long reception desk stretched across the far wall, manned by a woman typing briskly on a computer, her posture rigid with efficiency.
I hesitated just inside the doorway, suddenly aware of how out of place I felt. My French—halting at best—buzzed uselessly in my head. My confidence from earlier evaporated.
This wasn’t a theater or a bookstore. This was real.
I approached the desk.
“Bonsoir,” I said softly.
The woman looked up, eyes flicking over me with a quick assessment that felt more like inventory than interest. “Oui?”
“I—” I swallowed. “Je suis la sœur de Rose Rousseau.” My accent was clumsy, my grammar probably wrong. “Elle … elle est morte ici. Dans un accident.”
Something shifted behind the woman’s eyes. Not sympathy. Recognition. Or annoyance.
She sighed and glanced at the clock mounted on the wall behind her. “You are very late,” she said, switching to English without warmth. “These matters are handled during the day.”
“I know,” I said quickly. “I’m sorry. I just arrived in Paris yesterday. I didn’t?—”
She cut me off with a sharp look. “You are American?”
“Yes.”
Of course, I was.
Her mouth thinned. “You should have come this morning. Administrative offices are closing.”
“I understand,” I said, my voice tightening despite my effort to stay calm. “But I was told this is where my sister was brought after the accident. I just need to ask a few questions. And … about her remains. Her ashes.”
That earned me a raised eyebrow.
“She was cremated,” the woman said briskly. “Yes. The paperwork is not finished.”
“I know they’re pending release,” I said. “I’m her next of kin handling arrangements here.”
Another sigh. Louder this time.
“You Americans,” she muttered, not bothering to lower her voice. “You come when it is convenient for you and expect everything to stop.”
The words hit harder than they should have.
“I’m not expecting that,” I said, heat creeping into my cheeks. “I just—my sister died. I’m trying to understand what happened.”
The woman’s fingers paused over her keyboard. She studied me more closely now, as if reassessing whether I was worth the effort.
“Sit,” she said finally, gesturing toward a row of plastic chairs along the wall. “I will see if someone is available. But I cannot promise anything.”
“Thank you,” I said, even though the word tasted thin.
I sat.
The waiting room was nearly empty—just a man in work clothes staring at his phone and an elderly woman clutching her handbag like a lifeline. The television mounted high on the wall murmured softly in French, the sound barely registering.
