He nodded.
— And you didn’t do it.
— Non.
– For what ?
His voice became almost inaudible.
— Because at that point, you had stopped talking about books. I thought I might have misunderstood what you wanted.
Camille felt the anger return, clear and distinct.
— You didn’t ask.
— Non.
— You decided this on your own.
– Yes.
He did not defend himself.
— The premises are in your name if you want them. Your father’s account covers the renovations. If you don’t want them, I’ll sell them.
— You say that as if it doesn’t affect you.
— On the contrary. It touches me deeply. But wanting you to choose is not the same as choosing for you.
Later, all three walked down the cold street to the local.
Marc opened the door.
Dust floated in the light from his phone. The old parquet floor creaked. Large shop windows overlooked the street. At the far end, a staircase led to an empty floor from which one could see the slate roofs and a section of the Loire.
Camille stands there, motionless.
She lives off bookshelves. Tables. Children sitting on the floor on Saturday mornings. Readings in the evenings. Nina Park coming to sign her novel. Juliette behind the counter, pretending to hate customers but making them the best coffee in town.
And she saw herself.
Not a decorative wife.
Not a woman waiting by a cold dinner.
She saw herself standing in a place that did not diminish her.
Marc remained near the stairs. He did not enter into its silence.
For once, he waited to be invited.
Camille turned towards him.
— You hurt me.
– I know.
— Not just yesterday. For a long time.
– I know.
— I’m not coming back because you kept a noble secret or bought a building.
— I’m not asking you.
— I don’t know if I can still love you without losing myself.
Marc lowered his eyes.
— Then don’t decide now.
She looked around the room. Then at the street. Then at her father’s letter in her hand.
Staying wouldn’t have the same meaning if she had an open door.
Leaving is out of the question.
“I want the bookstore,” she said finally.
Marc’s face barely changed. A quiet relief. A restrained pride. But he didn’t say, “I knew it.”
He simply asked:
— What do you want to call it?
Camille looked at the bare walls, the windows, the dust, the still fragile future.
— The Beginning.
Juliette smiled.
Marc repeated softly:
— The Beginning.
The name seemed to take its place in the old room as if it had been waiting there for years.
Camille didn’t yet know if this bookstore would be the beginning of a life without Marc or the first place where they would finally learn to meet in a different way.
But for the first time in a long time, this question no longer frightened her.
Because she had found what her father had wanted to leave her.
Not just money.
Not just a key.
A choice.
