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“Oh, Tina, I almost forgot. I have more photographs for you. From before the war. Remember?”

“Oh yes. I’d love to see them. The others brought back such lovely memories.”

Gypsy produces a small envelope, slides it across the table. But she doesn’t release it immediately. Waits for Tina to place her handbag on the chair beside her, open and accessible.

“I hope Louis will enjoy them too,” Gypsy says, her hand dipping into Tina’s open bag. The movement is fluid, practiced, invisible. Her fingers find what they’re looking for, the small package of film rolls Tina wrapped in a handkerchief, transferring it to her own bag in one smooth motion.

At the same time, Tina takes the envelope of photographs—real photographs, genuine memories—and tucks it into her now-lighter bag.

The exchange takes three seconds. No one notices. Why would they? Two women sharing old photos. Harmless and sentimental, just like all women.

“Thank you, Gypsy. These will mean so much to him.”

“My pleasure. Now, I must run. Lunch service starts soon, and my customers are always so demanding.” She stands, kisses Tina’s cheeks again. “Take care of yourself, ma chère. These are such difficult times.”

“You too, Gypsy. Stay safe.”

Gypsy sweeps out, the film rolls hidden in her bag, destined for a courier who will get them to London through channels that even Tina doesn’t know about.

The photographs are backup, insurance. If the wireless transmissions fail, London will still get the intelligence.

Tina finishes her coffee slowly, savoring every sip. A luxury. A small reminder of what life was like before the occupation, what it might be like again when this nightmare is over.

If this is ever over.

By the time Andrée returns home, it’s past five o’clock. She’d promised Josie she’d be there when she came home from school. Promised. That word echoes as she climbs the stairs, each step heavy with guilt.

The apartment is quiet when she enters. Too quiet. “Josie?”

No answer. Then she hears it: piano music. Not “Clair de Lune.” Something else. Slower. Sadder.

Andrée moves to the doorway of the sitting room. Josie sits at the piano, her back straight, her fingers moving over the keys with careful precision. She’s playing a piece from the Bach notebook, the Minuet in G minor. Beautiful and melancholy.

Josie doesn’t stop playing when Andrée enters. She doesn’t acknowledge her presence at all, just carries on, her eyes fixed on the music, glancing down occasionally to find a note.

Andrée waits until the piece ends. The last chord hangs in the air, fades to silence.

“That was absolutely beautiful, Josie.”

Josie’s hands rest on the keys. She doesn’t turn around. “You promised you’d be here.”

She finally turns to look at her, and her eyes are red. She’s been crying.

“Grand-Mère and Grand-Père weren’t here either. I know if you don’t open the door when I knock, I’m to run to Monique’s home, but M. Dupont had followed me up and used his key to let me in. I was here all alone. And I know I’m supposed to be brave. I know I’m not supposed to be scared, but I was. I was scared something had happened to you.”

Andrée’s chest tightens. “Oh, Josie. I’m so sorry. I should have been here. You’re right. I promised, and I broke that promise.”

“What if you don’t come back one day? What if they take you like they took Maman and Léon? What if I’m alone again?”

Andrée pulls her close, and Josie doesn’t resist. Just melts into the embrace, small and scared. “I will always come back to you. Always. Do you hear me?”

“You can’t promise that.”

She has no reply for that. This little girl is wiser than any child should have to be.

They sit like that, wrapped around each other, the piano silent now. Outside, Paris continues its dangerous dance. Inside, a woman and a child cling to one another, both scared, both trying to be brave, but both knowing that promises are fragile things in wartime.

“Play for me?” Andrée asks finally. “Play something happy.”