The insistent ring of the cheap plastic phone cuts through the stale scent of Gauloises and old newspapers. Virginie wipes her hands on her apron, the movement automatic after years behind the counter of "Le Coin Lecture." It's past six, the shop almost empty save for a lone teenager browsing comics. She picks up the receiver, tucking it between her ear and shoulder. "Le Coin Lecture, Virginie speaking." Her voice carries the familiar low hum of routine. "Yes, hello, it's Madame Dubois. I'm calling about *L'Étranger*. I believe it was due last Tuesday?" Virginie sighs, a barely audible puff of air. She pulls out the small, dog-eared ledger from beneath the counter, flipping to the 'D' section. "Ah, Madame Dubois. Yes, April seventh. That makes it... five days overdue." She hears a rustle on the other end, a huff of indignation. "Five days? Really? I thought I had another week. Are you sure?" "The stamp clearly says April seventh, Madame," Virginie says, her tone even. She remembers stamping that particular Camus herself. It had a stain on the first page, from a coffee cup, she thinks. A small detail, but these details were her world outside of Jasmin and Quantin. "Well, I'll bring it in tomorrow, then. Such a fuss over a few days." The line clicks dead. Virginie places the phone back in its cradle, a small smile playing on her lips. It's a small victory, knowing the rules, remembering the dates, even for something as minor as an overdue library book. The bell above the door jingles, and the comic-browsing teenager, a pale boy with bright green hair, glances up. "You close soon, Madame?" "In fifteen minutes, Enzo," she replies. "Found anything interesting?" He shrugs, then nods towards a graphic novel featuring a cloaked figure. "This one looks good. Can I take it?" "Of course," Virginie says, scanning the barcode. The routine settles around her, a comforting blanket. Days bled into weeks in the small, cluttered shop, surrounded by paperbacks and periodicals. The tobacco shop and the small, independent library she ran within it were her world, a world of predictable rhythms, unlike the unpredictable chaos her children often brought. She counts the cash in the register, the familiar clink of coins a soothing sound. Jasmin would be home, probably doing her homework, maybe badgering Quantin about leaving his socks on the floor again. Quantin would be playing his blasted handheld console, headphones on, oblivious to the world. She pictures them, their small, vibrant lives. Closing the till, Virginie double-checks the lock on the front door, pulling it tight. The streetlamps of Royan cast long shadows down the Rue de la Poste. A cool breeze, carrying the faint scent of the sea, brushes against her face. She pulls her worn cardigan tighter. Soon, she'd be home, trading the quiet order of her shop for the lively, glorious mess of her family. --- Virginie walks the familiar five blocks, her worn canvas tote heavy with a baguette and some fresh tomatoes. The sky above Royan has turned a deep violet, the last vestiges of sunset fading. She turns onto her street, the row of identical apartment buildings blurring into a comforting pattern. Her building, number 17, has a chipped blue door, its paint peeling like old skin. She reaches for her keys, her fingers fumbling at the usual spot in her bag. Her gaze drifts up, towards the third-floor window of her apartment. A flicker of movement? No, just a trick of the light. She pushes the thought away, blaming her tired eyes. But as she steps closer, a cold knot tightens in her stomach. The blue door. It's not quite shut. A sliver of darkness gapes open, a jagged line against the dim hallway light. Her hand, still clutching the keys, freezes. Jasmin and Quantin knew the rules. Always lock the door. Always. A tiny, irrational voice whispers *just forgetfulness*, but it's drowned out by a sharper, more urgent dread. She pushes the door open, the movement slow, deliberate, as if she expects to find something lurking just beyond the frame. "Jasmin? Quantin?" Her voice, usually warm, comes out thin, strained. The hallway echoes back only silence. No sound of their usual squabbling, no tinny music from Quantin's room, no rustle of Jasmin turning pages. She steps inside, pulling the door shut behind her. The click of the latch sounds unnaturally loud in the oppressive quiet. The air inside the apartment feels heavy, still. Usually, even when they were quiet, there was a hum, a vibrancy. The faint smell of Jasmin's lavender soap, the lingering scent of Quantin's toast, the faint murmur of the TV next door. Tonight, nothing. The coat rack in the hall stands empty. No school bags flung carelessly on the floor. No muddy trainers left by the door, a constant point of contention. A prickle of unease crawls up her spine. This isn't right. It feels wrong in a way that goes beyond mere untidiness. She glances around, her heart starting a slow, heavy drum against her ribs. The living room is neat, unnervingly so. The cushions on the sofa are plumped. The remote control sits squarely on the coffee table. Too neat. Jasmin was meticulous, but Quantin? He left a trail of chaos in his wake. His action figures, his discarded comic books, his half-eaten snacks. None of it is here. Only this suffocating quiet. "Kids?" she calls out again, louder this time, forcing the sound into the unnatural stillness. Her voice cracks. No answer. --- Virginie bursts into Jasmin's room, her heart hammering against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in her chest. The unsettling silence confirms her children's absence. The bed is perfectly made, the floral duvet smoothed without a single crease. Jasmin's prized collection of old storybooks, meticulously alphabetized, lines her shelf. A small, handcrafted wooden bird, a gift from Virginie, sits on the bedside table, unmoving, watching the empty room. No sign of Jasmin. No backpack slung over the chair, no half-finished drawing on the desk. Just the faint, lingering scent of lavender, cool and clean, as if the room had been aired out and left untouched for hours. A cold dread, far deeper than annoyance, clutches at her throat. This isn't a simple prank. Jasmin would never leave her room so tidy, not without a reason. And Quantin, he would never let her. He would have been *here*. She whirls, her gaze sweeping the room again, searching for any disturbance, any sign. Her eyes snag on a small, folded piece of paper on Jasmin's pillow. She snatches it up, her fingers trembling. It's a drawing. A child's crude depiction of a swirling green portal, surrounded by tall, gnarled trees. At the bottom, in Jasmin's neat script: *Mama, we went exploring. Back soon.* Exploring? Her stomach lurches. Jasmin never explored without telling her. Quantin was too focused on his games to explore anything beyond the fridge. This wasn't like them. This wasn't a game. A wave of nausea washes over Virginie, her mind racing, scrambling for a logical explanation. Had they gone to the park? With whom? They weren't allowed to go far alone. She stumbles out of Jasmin's room, the drawing clutched tight in her hand. Her feet carry her automatically to Quantin's room, dread a bitter taste on her tongue. His room is equally pristine. The crumpled pile of clothes usually next to his bed is gone. His action figures, which usually lay strewn across the carpet in various stages of battle, are neatly lined up on his desk, as if posed for an inspection. His gaming console is gone, too, the charger still plugged into the wall, a cruel reminder of its absence. Quantin. He never, *never* put his things away. He lived in a state of carefully curated chaos. For his room to be like this, someone else had to have done it. Or something. The thought sends a shiver through her. Her breath hitches, a gasp catching in her throat. She wasn't strong enough. This feeling, this helpless, gut-wrenching realization that she had failed to protect them, was her oldest fear made real. The inadequacy of it all, the sudden, sharp understanding that her small, mundane life had left her utterly unprepared for this, for anything so profoundly wrong. She checks the bathroom, the kitchen. Every room is silent, empty, stripped of their vibrant presence. The toys are gone. The half-eaten snack bowls usually left on the coffee table. Everything. They simply vanished. The apartment feels like a stage after the actors have left, all props cleared away, waiting for a new play to begin, but the audience, Virginie, is still here, alone. --- Virginie grabs her phone, her fingers numb as she scrolls through her contacts. Her mind races, desperately trying to construct a scenario where this makes sense. A friend's house? An impromptu sleepover? She presses the first number, Marie, Jasmin's best friend's mother. The phone rings twice, then Marie's cheerful voice answers. "Virginie! What's up?" "Marie, it's Virginie. Are Jasmin and Quantin with you? Or is Jasmin with Léa? They're not home, and I can't find them anywhere." Her voice trembles, thin and reedy. "Jasmin? No, Léa's been home all afternoon. She finished her homework hours ago. Why? What's happened?" Marie's tone shifts, a hint of concern entering her voice, but it's mixed with a clear bewilderment. Virginie can hear the clatter of dinner plates in the background, a normal, comforting sound that only amplifies her own frantic state. "I don't know, Marie. The door was ajar when I got home, and they're just... gone. Their rooms are empty. They left a note, but it doesn't make any sense." Virginie's eyes sting. She can't explain the note, not yet. It sounds insane. *Exploring?* "Gone? Virginie, are you sure you haven't just missed them? Maybe they went to the park, or the boulangerie? They're big kids now, they wander." Marie's suggestion, meant to be reassuring, lands like a punch. Virginie clutches the phone tighter, her knuckles white. "No, Marie. This isn't like that. Their rooms are too tidy. Quantin's console is gone." She hears Marie sigh. "Look, Virginie, I'm sure they'll be back. Kids these days. Always off on some adventure. Try calling the other parents. I'm making dinner, the boys are starving. Let me know when you find them, okay?" The line disconnects. Virginie stares at the black screen, a wave of isolation washing over her. Marie's dismissive tone, the casual assumption of a childish escapade, makes her feel utterly alone with her burgeoning terror. She tries another number, then another. Each call yields the same result. "No, Virginie, not with me. Try Sylvie?" "Did you check the square? They love those new swings." "Oh, they're probably just playing a trick on you. Don't worry so much!" The platitudes, the gentle incredulity, the polite dismissals. No one takes her seriously. They don't hear the frantic edge in her voice, don't feel the icy grip of fear tightening around her chest. They see only Virginie, the reliable tobacco shop owner, the slightly overprotective mother of two spirited children. They don't see the woman whose world has just tilted off its axis. Hours pass. The sky outside turns from violet to a starless black. Virginie paces the empty apartment, the phone clutched in her hand, a useless brick. She's called everyone she can think of. The police station, their answering machine picking up, a recorded voice informing her of office hours. No one. Nothing. Her heart aches with a dull, persistent throb. She sinks onto the old velvet armchair in the living room, tears blurring her vision. Her gaze drifts across the room, past the television she rarely watches, past the small dining table where they ate dinner every night. It lands on the corner, where a tall, narrow bookshelf stands, laden with her collection of dusty, forgotten literature. Books she'd acquired over the years, never quite getting around to reading, remnants of a life she'd once imagined for herself before the shop, before the children. She hadn't touched it in years, just let the dust settle, a silent monument to her quiet dreams. As she watches, a faint, almost imperceptible shimmer pulsed from behind the dusty, forgotten bookshelf in the corner of the living room, a place she hadn't touched in years, a silent beckoning.

Chapter 1: Echoes in Empty Rooms