Bastien stared at the single bloom, its velvet petals a bruised, deep purple. The color of twilight, the color of a fading bruise. A violet. Léonie’s preferred flower, according to the café owner, but also… Héloïse’s favorite. “Céline, what… where did this come from?” His voice was a low rumble, the easygoing cadence gone, replaced by a thread of something taut. He felt an unnatural frost settle in the air around her. Céline didn't look at the flower. Her gaze was locked on his, dark and wide, a stark contrast to her usual composed demeanor. “It wasn’t here, Bastien. I swear it wasn’t. And… I found something.” She pushed the heavy, leather-bound book across the workbench. Its brittle pages rustled, open to a faded illustration of a spectral, shadowy form. He took the book, his fingers brushing over the aged paper. The text was in an archaic dialect, but the gist was clear enough. ‘*Ombre de Rue Ancolie*,’ he read aloud, his voice flat. ‘*Parasite psychique. Se nourrit d'émotions fortes, de souvenirs. Prend forme dans la douleur.*’ “A Shade,” Céline whispered, her voice barely audible. “It’s a Shade. It feeds on memories, Bastien. It was in my dream, trying to take them. Léonie… Léonie said that’s how she died.” Her small hand trembled as she pointed to a passage describing victims, hollowed out and forgotten, their essence consumed. Bastien’s attention snapped back to the violet. Its presence was deliberate, a taunt. “Héloïse’s favorite,” he murmured, the café owner’s words echoing in his mind. Léonie, the charming socialite; Héloïse, the quiet, overlooked shadow. A fresh stem placed on his easel after a creature hunted Céline through her sleep. The coincidence was too sharp, too precise. “It’s a message,” he said, more to himself than Céline. “From the Shade. Or from… from Léonie.” A knot tightened in his gut. The connection, the cutting, the name Héloïse scribbled frantically in the diary. It all pointed to the overlooked girl, the true victim, not Léonie. He nudged the blossom aside, its stem cool beneath his thumb. “Léonie,” he thought, sharpening his inner voice. *Focus on Héloïse. Give me everything you remember about her. The good, the bad, the hidden.* He pinned a fresh linen board onto the easel. He needed to paint. Not the falling girl, not the shadowy figure at the top of the stairs, but *Héloïse*. He needed to see her through Léonie’s eyes. He squeezed a dollop of umber onto his palette, then a muted ochre, the colors for a forgotten portrait. The air in the studio grew heavy, thick with Léonie’s fragmented thoughts. *Héloïse… always quiet… always there…* Her voice, usually so clear, was laced with a strange static, like an old radio struggling to find a signal. Bastien closed his eyes, letting the visions assemble behind his eyelids. The first image was soft, sun-drenched, Héloïse sitting by the sea, sketching. Léonie’s inner voice was dismissive, *‘She was always so absorbed in her little worlds.’* Then, a party at the manor, laughter echoing off the high ceilings. Héloïse stood alone by a window, her eyes downcast. Léonie, surrounded by admirers, glanced at her, a fleeting, almost imperceptible smirk touching her lips before she turned back to her conversation. *‘Héloïse preferred the shadows anyway.’* The hog-bristle brush moved with steady strokes. He sketched the delicate curve of Héloïse’s jaw, the slight slump of her shoulders, the way she held her hands clasped tight against her skirt. But as Léonie’s recollections sharpened, the haze thinned into something cold and spiteful. He saw Héloïse, her face flushed, showing Léonie a new drawing, her own version of the manor, infused with a whimsical, almost ethereal quality. Léonie, standing over her, laughing, *‘Oh, Héloïse, darling, you always were a dreamer. No one will ever care for such… fanciful things. Stick to what’s real.’* The words sounded soft, yet they hung in the air like poison. Héloïse’s small smile faltered, replaced by a flicker of hurt, quickly masked. Another memory, sharper, more cutting. Léonie, surrounded by their small circle of friends, detailing a planned outing to the beach. Héloïse, tentative, asked if she could join. Léonie’s voice, honeyed and sweet, replied, *‘Oh, Héloïse, we were just planning a little… intimate chat. Perhaps another time, love?’* The friends exchanged knowing glances. Héloïse retreated, her shoulders slumping further, the light in her eyes dimming. Léonie’s inward reaction was pure satisfaction: *‘She always knew her place.’* Bastien paused, the brush poised an inch above the linen. The voice in his thoughts, the spirit he thought he was shielding, soured before his eyes. The likeness taking shape was not of a meek girl, but of someone withered under deliberate humiliation. Léonie’s mind revealed a calculated, everyday cruelty. Then came a sudden numbness. Not the coastal draft, but a deadening winter settling through his veins. The Shade had seeped into the studio, locking its attention directly onto him. The foreign scenes shattered, replaced by glimpses of his own life: Céline’s laughter echoing through the manor halls, her small hand gripping his coat years ago. The entity tore at them, a dull suction trying to strip away his devotion to her. *No!* The thought was a roar, not just in his head, but an actual physical tremor that shook his hand, sending a splash of paint onto the floor. This was Céline. His living family. His anger spiked hot against the intrusion. He refused to let it siphon her away. The studio plunged into a deeper gloom, the air crackling with unseen energy. The easel creaked under a sudden downdraft. Bastien locked his jaw, anchoring his thoughts to Céline’s quick smile, to the debts he owed her, to the life they still had to build. He clamped his thoughts down behind iron barriers. The entity yielded with a dry rasp against the floorboards, the frost evaporating into damp sea air. Bastien caught the wooden edge of the easel, ribs heaving. The likeness of Héloïse had transformed beneath his hand. Her sketched gaze stared outward with raw dread, her mouth set in a thin line of exhaustion. It showed a person worn down by years of quiet malice. And Léonie’s voice, usually a comforting whisper, was now a fractured echo in his mind, thin and distant, as if the battle had drained her, too. *Héloïse… I didn’t mean…* Bastien stared at the paint. The tender phantom he had pitied had unraveled. Léonie Allard had not been an innocent bystander; she had been a petty tyrant. His task was no longer merely uncovering her death, but untangling the cruelty she had masked behind soft words, even if seeing the truth cost him everything he had left.

Portrait of a Lie