Morning was barely breaking over the still-sleeping city.
A gray mist clung to the cold cobblestones, the streets too quiet — unnaturally quiet.
Mylova's father, wrapped in a worn long coat with the collar turned up, walked quickly, almost invisibly.
He blended into the crowd of workers, beggars, and blurred silhouettes no one noticed.
He was no longer a man with a name or a face — just a ghost.
He was nearing the family home when his steps froze.
Two priests stood in front of the door.
Motionless. Patient.
Like hunters waiting for a wounded animal to emerge.
They were there to watch, to question, to trap.
A chill ran down his spine.
He backed away slowly, turning into a narrow alley he knew well.
There, he stopped to think, breath quick and sharp.
Where could she have gone?
And then it struck him like a slap of ice —
The cemetery. Of course.
She had gone to pray at the grave of her beloved late husband.
To honor a dead man… and perhaps to look for another name carved in stone.
His heart clenched.
No — worse. It boiled.
A low, trembling anger began to grow inside him.
He quickened his pace.
The cemetery gate groaned beneath his hand.
His eyes swept the rows of tombstones, and he saw her.
A fragile figure in black, standing still before a grave… but not Claude's.
She moved from stone to stone. Searching.
— You're looking for her, aren't you? he said, his voice cold, sharp as a blade.
Céleste flinched. She turned, pale-faced.
— You came here to find your own daughter's grave. As if you'd wagered on her death. As if you came here to confirm she didn't survive!
— That's not what you think… she murmured.
— And what am I supposed to think, huh?! That you came to pray for her? Or that you wanted to make sure she was buried — just like you hoped?
She tried to speak, but no sound came out. He stepped closer.
— You know what disgusts me? It's not only what you did. It's what you didn't do. You didn't fight. You didn't raise your hand. You didn't scream. You let them take her — just like you let them take Claude. Just like you would have done with Vanessa if she hadn't been so obedient.
— Stop… you don't understand…
— Claude was never sacrificed for divine reasons. They killed him to break you. To make you serve their cause. And you did!
— I obeyed to survive… she said, tears brimming. I didn't want to lose my children…
— But you lost them anyway! You lost all of us. And me — you never had me. You think I was happy? You think I accepted this life?
— And what about me? You think I was fulfilled — with a man who was never there? Claude was the only one who saw me as a woman. You were just a man married to his desk, even at home.
They stood there, breathing hard. Words had fallen between them like stones.
— I didn't come here to quarrel. I came for a divorce. I want custody of Vanessa. I want to take her. Far from here. And you — you'll stay here with your gravestones, your regrets, and your rotten faith.
She stiffened.
— You think I'll let you take my daughter?
— It's not a question. I will take her. Because she deserves a chance to live. And you… you destroy everything you touch.
Her gaze wavered, blurred.
— Go… she whispered. Go with your hatred, your contempt… and your pride. But know this: I never stopped loving my children. Even when I lost them. Even when I never knew how to save them.
— I'm not saying you're a bad mother. You're the best mother they could have had. You didn't love me like you loved Claude, but you didn't hate me either. I know that. The children know you love them — but your ways trap them, keep them from moving forward, from dreaming. You never turned the page on him, so you made them carry your wounds — in their minds and on their skin.
He turned on his heel, his coat whipping the air, and left the cemetery without looking back.
---
The father made his way to the quiet quarter where Marck, his eldest son, now lived.
The place had changed — more austere, grayer, more submissive than in his memories.
People spoke little, prayed often, lived halfway.
He climbed the narrow stairs of a small building and knocked.
Marck himself opened the door.
— Father? he said, surprised.
— May I come in? the father replied simply.
Marck stepped aside. The apartment was modest — one room, two chairs, stacks of religious books in a corner.
They sat. Silence settled in — heavy, but not hostile. Just… tired.
— It's been a while, son.
— I know, Father, but I've been working a lot lately… And Margarethe is expecting a child.
— You're joking?! You're having a baby and never came to the house to tell us? Are you avoiding me, son?
Marck lowered his head, ashamed.
— Father, I can barely make ends meet… I'm out of work, and the jobs I find don't pay enough to manage everything. You know our house — I didn't rent it, I sold it. I had no money, and now all I can offer my wife is this small, lifeless apartment. She says it's fine, but I know she can't keep living like this.
— Marck! I know you don't want my help, and I know you've shown me plenty of times how strong, smart, and resourceful you are. But you're my son, and I have the right to help when you need it. You may be a man now, but you'll always be my boy — and I love you. I'm so proud of you. A child… what a wonder!
Marck didn't know what to say. But he threw himself into his father's arms, soaking in his support and love.
After a long embrace, they sat again.
— Son, I came to give you news of the family — and to offer you, and your family, a new start. It may not be perfect, but at least you won't have to worry about your happiness.
— But first, let me tell you how it began. It all starts with the relationship between Louis and your sister, Mylova…
Mr. Dumas told him everything.
Marck could hardly believe that while he was drowning in financial troubles, his dear sister was being tortured behind his back.
If he had known, he would have killed those so-called saints with his bare hands.
— Father, how… why? I left home so recently.
— So much can happen in so little time.
— I'm coming with you. We'll take Vanessa with us — don't leave her with Mother. I still love her, but she's crossed the line. I may not have been there for them before, but now I'll always be there. And to think my little sister nearly died without me knowing…
— Do you think Margarethe will agree to come with us? Compared to this place, your apartment is a mansion.
— As long as the family is fed and happy, we'll be fine.
It was Margarethe herself who had spoken, wearing a simple but lovely purple dress, her round belly leading the way. And to the father's surprise, she was holding little Vanessa's hand — the girl's eternal angelic smile still intact.
Vanessa ran to hug her father tightly.
— Margarethe?! How are you? Marc and I were just talking about you.
— I know. Our gift is long-distance communication. Marc told me to pick up Vanessa from her violin lesson, and that we'd be leaving as a family for a new place.
The father was fascinated by their complicity.
Between them, it was easy to see how deeply they loved each other.
For Mylova and Louis, it was a shared feeling — if one was hurt, the other felt it.
For Mr. Dumas and Céleste… both were prodigies at ignoring the pain they caused each other.
Together, they gathered their things and left the city quietly.
Better moments awaited them in that modest village deep in the forest…