Memories Never Dies

Épisode 7

Chapter 6

It's been a week since that famous day, and no unexpected or irritating dreams have returned to disrupt my peace of mind. The situation seems to have calmed down, and life has gone back to its regular rhythm. At least, that's how it appears on the surface. However, despite the outward tranquility, from my morning run to my workday, a peculiar sense of emptiness has crept into my life. A sort of incompleteness, like the absence of someone or something significant. And it's no wonder: every time the memories surface, the visions of Amaury or the extraordinary events of last Friday strike my heart with a powerful force.

I'm in pain.

Since that day, a painful and inexplicable agitation has gradually revealed a powerful disturbance to my consciousness. A feeling of lack, exacerbated by the sense of being trapped in an endless routine. In my mind, my life, my work, my relationship with Enzo—they've all taken on the appearance of habits that have insidiously become mechanical over time. So many subtle indicators, without symptoms or obvious remedies for the moment, masking a much deeper disquiet. But, convinced that things will eventually sort themselves out, I prefer to wait. Wait for time to carry away this inner chaos, if that's even possible to hope for.

Since our last meeting, and in anticipation of the next one, I have been working like crazy on Amaury's file. To be honest, the interview ahead fills me with apprehension, both professionally and personally. And for good reason: it's a major social event that could establish our agency's reputation on a national scale. Failure is not an option. This pressure adds to the evident relational difficulties with my business partner, in whose presence I seem to lose my manner inexplicably. A significant problem, I must admit, that I'll need to resolve as soon as possible, or else our collaboration could become a living hell. But my embarrassment, unlike his, doesn't seem to be shared, according to my boss —the only one who's recently spoken with him. During these conversations, not only did Amaury pass on his greetings to me, but he also heaped a ton of praise about me—my professionalism, elegance, delicacy, and more—putting me on an embarrassingly high pedestal. A stark contrast to what I expected when reflecting on how we parted ways.

For Luna, nothing has changed. My sister hasn't heard from Loïc since they decided to take a time off. Feeling the need for a break from the routine, the young woman took advantage of a few days off to recharge her batteries with her father in a nearby region. This unexpected break did her a lot of good. Not that she's moved on—it's still too early for that—but let's say that since her return, the newly single woman seems more at peace. She's been sharing more carefree moments with Nonna and me, even if she hasn't completely regained her appetite and still has moments of sadness. A completely understandable state of mind when considering all that she's lost. She thought she was bound to a man for life, she had envisioned an idyllic life with him. An apartment, then a house, children... So many dreams that crumbled in an instant. Not to mention, she's now 26 years old and can't shake the feeling that she's wasted her time and youth.

Except for a few details, the following weekend is nearly identical to the previous one.

Friday and Saturday night, I meet up with the whole g**g at Tenclub, fully enjoying my friends' company and dancing happily with Laura. In the noisy environment, we don't have the opportunity to discuss the sensitive topic from the week before. An achievement, considering Laura's typical inquisitive nature, and a relief for me, not yet ready to explore the details of the peculiar relationship I've been cultivating with my boss's nephew.

As usual, Enzo didn't leave the pool table, drank too much again, and instantly fell asleep once he laid down on his bed. A behavior that, a few weeks ago, wouldn't have bothered me at all, but today, things are different. With fresh eyes, like waking up from a deep sleep, less of a spectator and more of an observer, more critical too. This new outlook is undoubtedly a sign of changes to come, realizing that life isn't just about this, especially not at my age. Maybe if my heart still fluttered in my boyfriend's presence, I could accept it, but not in this situation.

The hours that have just passed prove it. Being together, each in our own space, epitomizes the situation. Pointless, heavy, and artificial. An illusion that appears flawless on the surface, but deep down, it rings false, coupled with the feeling of being trapped. Because how do you break free from a relationship that time has all but solidified?

For several months now, every Friday and Saturday night, I spend the night at Enzo's place. The young man rents an apartment on the fringes of the city, ever since his parents left Saintes-Dames five years ago. An opportunity he seized, securing the stability of a perfectly predictable life: metro, work, sleep. A routine that he had to adjust to include me—naturally! An effort, though, that was tempered, even calculated, accepting a life as a couple, but only on weekends. A gentle way to simply enjoy the present moment while intentionally—or perhaps unintentionally—excluding any speculation about the future.

Today, Sunday, after a run and a quick stop at Les Glycines to eat and shower, I return to Enzo's place in the early afternoon. We're joined by Maxou, Karl, and Laura, and spend the afternoon playing video games—or at least the guys do.

It's not until after the pizza delivery and the end of the last game that our friends finally leave.

It's late when Enzo, exhausted from his weekend and the many glasses of alcohol consumed throughout the day, falls asleep.

I'm exhausted too, yet I struggle to fall asleep. I glance at my phone every ten minutes, despairing that time refuses to pass despite my deep desire to sleep. Just like every night for the past week, the extraordinarily long and eventful day from last Friday replays in my mind, scene by scene.

When I open my eyes, I find myself once again in the familiar stone-paved alley from my dream, right in front of the steps leading to the bourgeois residence.

Aware that I'm dreaming, I notice that, just like in reality, I can move around at my will. I decide to approach the entrance steps. A gentle wind whispers through my hair and the nape of my neck as I reach the door—an antique that I examine closely, searching for clues.

A small metallic object is affixed in the middle of the door. It's a sort of infinite symbol, separated in the center like two interlocking rings that never touch.

As I observe it, a strange feeling washes over me. The object, which I'm seeing for the first time, seems out of place, as if it had been added. Disturbed by this realization, I nonetheless continue my exploration and notice an inscription just above the letterbox.

It's the number one hundred and eleven... But a noise from across the street catches my attention.

About twenty meters away, a Siberian Husky stands. Its striking, pure white fur contrasts with the surrounding darkness. Sitting on its hind legs, the animal stares at me with intense, azure eyes that give me chills.

Looking away from the creature, which doesn't seem to mean any harm, I instinctively reach into my coat pocket and pull out an old, large key, which I insert into the lock.

The imposing door opens to reveal a long, dark corridor leading to a staircase. I proceed to climb the stairs.

On the first landing, I'm drawn to a white door facing me. I turn the golden handle and enter an antechamber. The place feels surprisingly familiar, like a memory. In front of me, a tall window with sheer curtains dancing in the breeze stretches up to the high ceiling. To the left, an ancient secretary desk with numerous drawers sits against the wall.

A beautiful baroque-style chair sits in front of the desk. On my right, an identical chair and a Louis XVI-style loveseat face each other. Behind them, a large bookcase filled with old books dominates the space.

Everything seems from another time, from the furniture and decorations to the walls, high ceilings, and hardwood floors. But it feels like it all belongs to me. These are my furnishings, my secretary desk, my antechamber. I even recognize a familiar scent of old wood and wax.

Next to the desk, in the middle of the adjacent wall, a second white door catches my eye. The hardwood floor creaks slightly under my feet as I approach and reach for the doorknob. But suddenly, a gust of air sweeps through my hair and the nape of my neck, sending a chill down my spine. My heartbeat drums in my ears as a piercing ringing fills my head. A long, purple feather gracefully twirls before my astonished eyes. Then, with a deafening bang, the door through which I entered slams shut, instantly expelling me from my vision.

Abruptly, I find myself sitting on Enzo's bed, eyes wide open, disoriented, and heart racing. Immersed in the final images of my dream, my mind takes a few seconds to return to reality.

Peering outside, I notice it's still dark. Next to me, Enzo remains deeply asleep, undisturbed. Disheartened, I let out a long sigh and grab my cell phone to jot down the essentials of my nighttime escapade.

The clock marks "1:11" AM.

Immediately captivated by the sight of the triple digit "one," identical to the "111" witnessed moments ago, I'm unsure how to interpret the coincidence. I consider myself rather rational. Although I like to believe that nothing happens by chance, I'm not the type to seek sensible explanations for every mystery surrounding us. However, over the past two weeks, and especially since my last dream and encounter with Amaury, I must admit that I've experienced a significant amount of strange occurrences.

In fact, these events are almost enough to make me question my beliefs. Because even though not everything can be explained, my Cartesian mind pushes me to seek coherent answers to the troubles that haunt me. For example, this old house—a place I've visited twice, which seems so real that I wonder if it might be a memory. The problem, and a significant one at that, is that I'm certain it's not. And if it doesn't belong to my past or my memory, then where could it possibly come from? I have absolutely no idea. A realization that is both troubling and frustrating, especially since I know I won't find an answer tonight.

My tired mind urges me to postpone my speculations, so I place my phone on the bedside table, lie down, and fall asleep almost instantly.