FLAMES IN THE RAIN
514 Words
The night was restless. Juliet couldn’t stop replaying Miles’s words They’re watching everything.
She sat awake until dawn, the city a blur of lights and uncertainty. Outside her window, the first blush of morning painted the Seine gold. It should have been beautiful. Instead, it felt like the world was holding its breath.
By eight, she was at her brother’s old office inside the Foundation’s main building. The air smelled of paper and perfume the past and the present colliding. She traced her fingers along Michael’s desk, the small chip in the corner where he used to tap his pen when thinking.
She whispered, “Where were you going that night, Mike?”
The door opened quietly behind her.
Miles.
He wore no suit this time, only a dark coat. Shadows of exhaustion lingered under his eyes.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, his voice soft but strained.
“I could say the same,” she murmured.
He looked around the office, the ghost of memory between them.
“It hasn’t changed,” he said.
“Except everything that matters,” she replied.
Their eyes met longer this time, heavier.
“I found something last night,” she said, opening her bag. She laid out the Project Cœur files, the blueprints, the note Michael had written: start where it ended the river.
Miles froze. His throat worked silently before he spoke. “You went into the archives?”
“I had to. You’re hiding something.”
He stared at the papers like they were a grave.
“Juliet, there are things about Michael’s death you don’t want to know.”
“Try me.”
He exhaled, pacing.
“The Foundation wasn’t just restoring neighborhoods. Money was moving through the project's illegal transfers. Michael found out. He came to me with proof. The night he died, he was supposed to meet me at Pont Neuf.”
Juliet’s heart raced.
“You were there?”
He nodded.
“But he never came. They said his car lost control.”
She took a step closer. “Who are they, Miles?”
He hesitated.
“My father’s partners. Maybe even my father himself.”
“Jean Morel?”
He didn’t deny it.
Tears burned behind her eyes. “You think your father killed him?”
“I think Michael died for uncovering the truth.”
Silence fell thick, fragile, electric. The rain began again, tapping gently against the glass.
Juliet looked up at him, voice trembling.
“Then help me finish what he started.”
Miles’s eyes softened, the ice in them melting just a little. “You’ll hate me before this is over.”
“Maybe,” she said. “But not as much as I’d hate myself for doing nothing.”
For a moment, his hand brushed hers. Just a touch but it felt like lightning.
Midnight Letter #49 Michael,
He’s helping me. I want to believe it’s guilt. But part of me still feels that old pull the one I never buried with you. Tell me, am I chasing justice or a memory?
- Writer
