ELLA
Ididn’t sleep much.
Every time I drifted off, my mind dragged me back to the clinic—the fluorescent lights, the clipped voices, the way Rose’s final hours had been reduced to paperwork and procedure. To the knowledge that someone else had been with her when she died.
Someone I still didn’t know.
By the time dawn began filtering through the curtains, I was already awake, staring at the ceiling of Rose’s apartment, listening to the city begin again outside.
Today would be different.
It had to be.
I rolled out of bed with purpose, moving through the small apartment quietly, the echo of yesterday’s humiliation still prickling under my skin. I refused to cry again in that waiting room. Refused to let frustration or language barriers make me feel small.
If they wanted procedure, I would give them procedure.
I showered longer than usual, letting hot water loosen the knot between my shoulders. Steam fogged the mirror while I dried off, and when I caught my reflection—eyes still faintly swollen but determined—I felt something settle inside me.
Resolve. This time, chosen consciously.
I dressed carefully, not out of vanity but strategy.
Dark jeans that fit well without trying too hard. Black ankle boots sturdy enough for walking but sleek enough to pass for put-together. A soft gray sweater layered beneath my camel coat—neutral, polished, unremarkable. My hair, usually unruly, I smoothed into loose waves that fell over my shoulders. Minimal makeup. Enough to erase exhaustion without looking like effort.
Competent. Adult. In control.
Not the woman who’d sobbed in a waiting room twelve hours earlier.
I tied a scarf at my neck, grabbed my bag, and checked the folder of documents twice before leaving.
Cool morning air hit my face as I stepped outside. Paris felt subdued at this hour—delivery trucks unloading crates, cafés setting out chairs, commuters moving with sleepy purpose. The city belonged to workers now, not lovers or tourists.
I reached the clinic just before eight.
The same pale stone façade. Same understated plaque.
Only now, morning light exposed how ordinary it was. No tragedy in the architecture. No indication that lives ended here. Just another building doing its job.
I stood across the street for a moment, steadying myself.
You can do this.
I crossed and pushed inside.
The air still smelled faintly medicinal. The lights hummed overhead. The entryway was empty except for a cleaning cart parked against the wall.
And behind the desk?—
The same receptionist.
Her eyes flicked up, recognition immediate, followed by something between irritation and surprise.
“You came back,” she said flatly.
“Good morning,” I replied evenly, stepping forward. “I’d like to speak with someone regarding Rose Rousseau. I’ve brought the necessary documents.”
I placed my folder neatly on the counter.
