L'ombre of Love

The night dew hadn’t fully lifted when footsteps crept closer. Inside an old French-style house veiled by the fog of time, Juliette Laurent—known simply as Lau—lay beneath a thin blanket, trembling not from the cold, but from another haunting nightmare. That night again. The night blood soaked the wooden floor and her world shattered in a blink. She was only seven when her parents were found murdered—stabbed repeatedly in the study. It was ruled a homicide, but the killer was never found. Since then, Lau had been placed under the care of her uncle and aunt, Louis and Madeleine Chastain, who became her legal guardians. But the house never felt like home. Her bedroom was still the one that used to belong to her mother. The once-beautiful lace curtains now hung dull and dusty. The old wooden window creaked and often blew open with the wind, and the wardrobe groaned at night—like it held secrets it refused to release. That morning, Lau woke up gasping. Her left hand clutched the blanket until her fingers ached, soaked in sweat. Her dark brown eyes stared emptily at the dusty ceiling. On the small table beside her bed sat a tiny cutter she hadn’t used the night before. She had considered it—like so many nights before—craving the sharpness to cut through silence and sorrow. But in her dream, a voice had stopped her. Her father’s voice. "You must live, Lau. Even when everything else feels dead." SLAM! The bedroom door burst open. “You’re still not up?!” Madeleine’s sharp voice sliced the air. The woman stepped inside without knocking, trailing a heavy perfume. “What time do you think it is? Do you think this house is a hotel?!” Louis barked from behind her. Lau sat up slowly, her eyes still swollen. “I’m sorry, I—” “Silence. No excuses. The kitchen stinks of garbage, and you just sleep? Useless girl.” Madeleine threw a rag at Lau’s face. The girl didn’t protest—she simply picked it up from the floor. “Clean this place before we get back. We have a meeting,” Louis said flatly. “Don’t expect to eat if you’re not done.” They left, slamming the door behind them. Lau stared into the mirror. The 19-year-old looked like a ghost of herself—pale, dark circles under her eyes, her wavy hair a tangled mess, and faint scars still visible on her left wrist. She took a breath… and began to sweep. That night, after finishing her chores and as the house sank into silence, Lau crept out of her room. She headed to the attic—a hidden space only she knew. Once her mother’s studio, it still held the scent of oil paint and the quiet whisper of memory. She sat near the small round window, letting the moonlight brush her face. A sketchbook lay on her lap. She began to draw. A face. Masculine. Unknown. But somehow… familiar. Dark hair. Storm-gray eyes. Her pencil froze as a floorboard creaked. Not from the attic. From her room. Heart pounding, Lau hurried downstairs and pushed open her door. The window… wide open. She was sure she had closed it. She turned—and froze. A man stood inside. He was facing away, tall and lean in a worn leather jacket. His hair dark and slightly tousled. When he turned, their eyes met. And Lau stopped breathing. Those eyes… the same from her sketch. Her mouth opened, but no sound came. The world spun. Her knees buckled. Darkness. Trov didn’t move fast enough. She collapsed on the floor. “Oh god…” he muttered. He crouched down, gently touching her shoulder. Her breathing—shallow, but steady. “I’m sorry… I didn’t know anyone lived here,” he whispered. “I thought this place was abandoned.” He studied her face. Pale. Yet peaceful in her unconsciousness. Trov stood, ready to leave—until something on the floor caught his eye. A silver medal. He picked it up. Half cracked on one side. At the center: a tiny engraved cross and the initials M.P. His expression changed. It was his. Or… it used to be. His hand trembled. He looked at the window. Then at the girl. No. He couldn’t stay any longer. If caught, he’d be seen as a thief—or worse. With a heavy breath, he left the medal behind. He jumped out the window and vanished into the night. Trov slipped through narrow Parisian alleys until he reached an old house at the edge of Rue Caulaincourt. It was his temporary hideout—rented discreetly through underground contacts. Peeling off his jacket, he sat in a creaking chair. His hands still shook. Her face wouldn’t leave his mind. Why did she seem like she knew something? He closed his eyes. Tried to breathe. But something in him stirred—telling him that last night wasn’t just coincidence. His phone vibrated. Unknown number. He hesitated, then answered. “Moreo Petrov?” The voice was deep. Cold. “If you won’t return what doesn’t belong to you… then Paris will pay for it.” Silence. His eyes widened. The call ended. *** The next morning, in the Laurent house, Lau awoke feeling weak. But her thoughts focused on one thing. The medal. She stared at the small object on the table. She remembered it clearly. Her father gave it to her on her sixth birthday. It disappeared during the funeral. How could it be here again? And her thoughts drifted—to the stranger who stood in her room last night. SLAM! The door flew open again. Madeleine glared. “The living room is still a mess! What are you thinking, daydreaming like an i***t?!” Lau kept her head down as the question slipped from her lips—almost unconsciously, yet filled with a growing determination deep within her chest. “Aunt…” her voice was soft, but clear enough to be heard. “Did my parents… leave anything for me before the accident?” Madeleine’s steps halted abruptly. The woman turned, her face tense, as if she hadn’t expected Lau to ask such a thing. “What do you mean?” she snapped, her tone turning colder. Lau swallowed hard but didn’t retract her words. “An heirloom. A letter. Or anything… they might’ve left behind for me.” For a moment, silence thickened the air, wrapping the room in an unsettling stillness. Madeleine’s eyes narrowed, and a thin smile curled on her lips—not one of affection, but of warning. “That’s enough questions. Don’t you dare dig into a past that’s already dead,” she said icily. Lau held her breath, her heart pounding. But this time… she didn’t run. She met her aunt’s gaze and knew—the answer wouldn’t come from this woman. She would have to find it on her own. And for the first time, she didn’t just want to know. She needed to know.