Beneath Forbidden Shadows

The sky held that pale gold hue of late July afternoons, when everything seems suspended between heat and silence. Emma set her suitcase on the familiar tiled floor of the family home. She was back in this place after so many years away. She inhaled deeply, then pushed open the door. The air inside felt a little thick, heavy with memories and familiar scents she began to re-experience: light incense, polished wood, and that undeniable fragrance. The persistent scent of dried jasmine was pleasant to smell again, as it brought back agreeable memories. "Emma?" The voice came from the living room. A voice she'd recognize among a thousand. Serge. He was there, grave, composed, with that charismatic warmth that made him a mysterious figure. She paused for a second, finding her heart inexplicably tight, following her transition from imaginary world to reality, then stepped inside. He stood there, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, as if he hadn't been expecting her. He hadn't changed, or rather, he had, but not enough to erase the turmoil he caused her. His salt-and-pepper beard better defined his jawline than before, and his dark eyes still seemed capable of reading right through her. "You've grown," he said simply, offering a faint smile. She replied with a brief, almost nervous smile. Nervous? No, rather severe; it was characteristic of her. She didn't want to hear his voice. Not now, even if, deep down, she did. She just wanted to… breathe. She couldn't understand why that damned shiver always returned when she saw him. "Is Dad not here?" she asked, summoning all the courage she could muster at that moment, speaking while avoiding his gaze. "He's at the market. He wanted to wait for you, but you know him, you know how he is…" She nodded, then let her eyes wander around the living room. Everything was exactly as in her memories, as if frozen. Only Serge seemed more alive than the entire setting. She sat in the armchair by the window, the one her mother loved to occupy. The emotion of the past caught her by surprise, but she quickly pushed it away. "Are you staying long this time?" "For the summer, maybe longer… if I find something to keep busy!" she affirmed. Serge smiled, a little more genuinely this time. And Emma felt a blush creep up her cheeks. Why was he smiling like that? Had he understood? Impossible. He didn't know. He mustn't know. She turned her eyes to the garden, where the setting sun cast long, tranquil shadows. She wished her heart would calm down. She wished she wouldn't feel these sensations so soon, even if they didn't really hurt her. Hurt, you say? Oh, yes! All of it made her so vulnerable to him, and him alone. And even if she loved being close to him and not having to confront these feelings, she just didn't like being vulnerable. "Would you like some tea?" he offered. *Couldn't he just be quiet? But what had I asked him? Did he feel obligated to speak again, just for tea?* she cried deep inside. What could she do against him? It wasn't as if he was attacking her with his words when he spoke. It was only attention toward her. She ended up nodding "YES," without speaking. *Pouf*... Finally, almost relieved he was heading to the kitchen. She let out a long sigh when he disappeared behind the door; it was more than just relief. She had never dared to name what she felt for Serge. It wasn't just admiration. Not just attraction. It was something else. A tension that overwhelmed her, returning each time, stronger, more absurd than she expected. She closed her eyes. She was no longer a child. She had no more excuses. Nothing was holding her back from declaring her flame to him right now. And yet, the mere sound of his voice was enough to make all her good intentions waver. Across the room, a gentle breeze made a windowpane rattle. She shivered again, afraid of having been startled by the wind and not by him. Him? But he had already returned, calm, with the teapot in hand. Without her seeing the silent gaze Serge cast upon her. "Jasmine, as usual?" She started slightly. He was right there, close, holding out a steaming cup of tea. She nodded, took the cup without daring to look him in the eyes. "Thank you…" she said, still avoiding his gaze. They remained there for a few seconds, in silence. It wasn't an awkward silence. It was something else. As if everything they had never said floated between them, invisibly and heavily. "Your father prepared the guest room for you," he said suddenly. "He thought your room was too…" "Childish?" "Exactly." She offered a faint smile. He couldn't know that this room, familiar or not, felt like a refuge to her right now. She would have loved to protest and reclaim her original room. But that would be quite childish if she did. She didn't protest. She didn't have the strength. Especially not now. A sound of footsteps outside caught her attention. A silhouette passed through the gate, then disappeared. A young man, probably a neighbor. She didn't pay it any mind. "You seem tired," Serge remarked. "I am a bit. The journey… and the rest." "The rest?" She hesitated, took a sip of tea. It was perfect. Always the same taste. That of summer, of the garden, of that time when carelessness was queen… and now, confusion settled in. "Nothing important. Just… things to forget." He didn't reply. He merely gave a nod, almost respectful. They then spoke of trivialities. The garden, the heat, mango season. Emma pretended to listen, but her mind wandered. She watched his hands, his gestures, his lips moving. Every detail awakened a memory within her. An emotion. A forbidden desire she could no longer contain. When night fell, he lit a soft lamp near the bookshelf. The atmosphere changed. More subdued. More intimate. "Do you want something to eat?" he asked. "No, thank you. I think I'll go to bed." He looked at her a little too long. Then nodded. "I'll walk you up." She climbed the stairs, aware of his presence behind her. Reaching the door, she turned. He was there, hands in his pockets, gaze dark. "Good night," she said, almost whispering. "Good night, Emma." She entered, gently closed the door, and leaned against it for a few minutes, her heart pounding. She remained frozen by the door, as if waiting for something from him. But no, she was simply holding her breath, struggling with all those inner sensations that made her vulnerable to Serge again. She sighed, put down her bag, sat on the bed, and finally let down her guard. Her hands trembled not from fear or frustration, but from longing tied to a feeling she refused to name. She opened her notebook, scribbling a few lines: "He's here. Too close. Too calm. Too gentle. Too affectionate like a father, a lover, a love. Too much of everything at once. And I am still that idiotic little girl who still believes she can hide what she feels for the..." And she closed the notebook without finishing those words that connected her thoughts and, at the same time, reminded her of moral sense. Then, in the silence of the night, she let a tear fall. Not from pain. Just… an overflow linked to a lack of audacity or courage. She stood up and opened the window. The wind was warm. The stars, numerous. She clung to them, as if to suspend her doubts. Then she saw, below, Serge's silhouette, alone in the garden. He was smoking, a habit she didn't know he had. Slowly, he looked up at the window. Their eyes met. Neither moved. She finally smiled faintly, then closed the window, slowly, without a word. Then she lay down on the bed, eyes wide open in the dark. The soft, plush mattress conformed to the curve of her back with a comforting warmth. The cool cotton sheets glided against her skin like a silent caress, one she would have wished to receive from Serge. Little by little, the tension in her shoulders released. This simple, almost forgotten comfort soothed the tumult of her thoughts. She let herself be enveloped by the calm, suspended between the night's silence and the bed's softness. She fell asleep without even realizing it, carried away into a strange dream where memories mingled with silent desires. In this dream, she ran through a field, barefoot, and in the distance, a male silhouette waited for her. First blurry, then clearer. Serge. But as she approached, the features changed. Another presence emerged, unknown, younger, more untamed. Another story to come. She woke with a start, heart pounding, bathed in a soft sweat. Light barely filtered through the curtains. She placed a hand on her chest, trying to calm what she didn't understand. And suddenly, she heard footsteps echoing through the house after a few minutes of absence caused by the comfort of her bed. Perhaps her father. Perhaps Serge. Emma remained still, each thud of footsteps intensifying the heat in her chest. A few minutes of absence, she told herself, but morning was already there. Another reality that struck her with surprise.