The two figures moved slowly through the trees. One was tall and massive. The other, small and round.
The murmurs became clearer—curses, probably, whispered by the taller one.
Then, they stepped out of the woods.
The larger man was still grumbling into his thick beard, stumbling over roots that blocked his path.
Annabelle exchanged a glance with the priest. She wasn't certain… but she had a suspicion.
The night before, the mayor had knocked on her door.
He had warned her that members of her mother's family would soon arrive to take custody.
She had asked him just one thing: Who?
He had answered: two men. Her uncles. Her late mother's brothers.
The small, stocky man had seemed in a rush to leave. Half bald, with a thin ring of hair and always checking his watch. She hadn't even had time to say another word—she already saw his back walking away.
Two uncles she had never met. She hadn't even known they existed. That night, she chose not to think about it.
She already had too much weight on her frail shoulders.
The burial ahead was enough.
Now, she regretted not caring more.
When she looked at her uncles, she expected to feel something. A connection. But nothing came. Just two strangers.
Instead, she felt anger. Quiet frustration. Why now? Where were they before?
She was completely shattered by the deaths of her parents. Her father's death—unexplained, and too strange to be a simple illness. Her mother, who in the pit of despair, had ended her own life.
And she had to carry the fact… that her memory seemed fractured.
Crushed by events piling on, with no time to breathe. She would have been alone if not for old Amandinne, who had stood by her. The idea that strangers would now decide her fate was hard to bear.
The round little man stepped forward first, smiling with a kind face.
— Hello, Annabelle. I'm Nicolas, and this is Georges, my brother. I believe the mayor informed you. We're your uncles.
Nicolas spoke with the softest, warmest voice he could muster. She didn't answer. She moved closer to the priest, still cautious.
Suddenly, a quiet sniffle broke the silence. Then another, louder.
It was Georges. His shoulders shook as he tried to hold it in. His face twisted into a mask of grief and regret over losing his sister.
Ten years. Ten years with no news. Ten years of stubborn pride. Ten years without taking the first step to reach out.
He took a step forward. Then another. But it was too late. He walked toward her grave with difficulty. He passed Annabelle without seeing her, without even looking.
A wave of disappointment passed through her. He hadn't looked at her once.
He and Nicolas were dressed in full black: polished leather shoes, satin pants, dress shirts under tailcoats, and top hats.
He raised a trembling hand and placed it on the cold stone.
Annabelle flinched. He had placed it in the exact same spot she had during the burial.
Nicolas watched her. He didn't seem to feel what his brother felt. He looked instead at the girl in white. Pure, radiant white under the sunlight. Something must have happened for her to refuse to dress properly for such a moment.
Annabelle noticed his gaze and spoke despite the frozen lump in her throat.
— Did you… know I existed before?
Nicolas froze. How could he have? Their sister had left with that frail man ten years ago. He knew she had argued about it with their parents.
Then she had stormed off and never returned. He was only fifteen back then. Georges was already twenty-five. Maybe it had meant more to him. But Nicolas didn't feel the same depth.
Still, he removed his hat out of respect. For the woman bound to him by blood.
— Annabelle… I don't really know how to say this. But we didn't know our sister had a child with Albert. The mayor—after, well, you know—had your house cleaned. In your parents' room, he found a letter with Georges' and my name, along with our address.
Nicolas loosened his coat collar and reached inside. He pulled out a letter, yellowed with time, the seal clearly broken. In an instant, the girl recognized the handwriting. Her knees gave out as she stared at the letters written by her mother.
Nicolas caught her in time, sighing.
— I know it's hard to accept, but she had planned this ahead. That letter came with another from the mayor explaining everything. He broke the seal looking for answers, and found that Éléna had two brothers. Me and Georges.
It was painful to admit. Months before doing the unthinkable, she had planned it all. It was the mayor who opened the letter and discovered she had two uncles.
The priest, who had remained silent, finally spoke.
— The mayor—Jonathan—asked me to tell you that you'll need to come to the church with me. It's a small village, he borrowed my office for the signing. The notary from the neighboring village will be there too. But before that…
The priest pulled something from his robe: a small notebook. Annabelle recognized it instantly—her father's journal. She snatched it from his hands without thinking, startling him. The difference between how she treated the letter and the notebook was unmistakable.
Annabelle ran her fingers over the worn leather edges. She fought the tears that wanted to fall. To stay in control, she spun around, grabbed the letter from Nicolas, and opened it without hesitation.
She read the words her mother had left behind. Brief. But heavy.
Dear Georges, my brother,
It's been so long since we last saw each other.
If you're reading this, then I'm no longer in this world.
I ask you to take care of my daughter, Annabelle.
Éléna.
— That's it… Annabelle flipped the page, but there was nothing more. On the envelope, Éléna had written the family relation and the address of their old manor.
Her hands clenched around the letter, crumpling it. She felt like an old pair of worn-out shoes, thrown away when they're no longer any good. Something abandoned without a second thought. How could she do this? How could she leave me like that?
This time, the tears came freely.
A cry rose from her throat, raw like an animal in pain. She crouched to the ground, feeling torn apart from the inside.
Without thinking, she shoved both objects into her dress pocket—as if they burned her hands—then grabbed her head with both arms.
Nicolas quickly knelt and embraced her. He gently patted her back, trying to comfort her.
— Don't worry, Annabelle. We're here now. We'll take care of you.
She tore herself away from him, eyes swollen with tears.
— What do you know? You don't even know me.
The priest stepped forward and laid a hand on her shoulder.
— Think of your father, Annabelle. I'm sure he would've wanted you to be safe. To have a family to protect you.
This time, the girl faltered—less sure.
She trusted this priest. He had been with their family since her father's death. He was the one who had asked Amandinne to care for her. He was the one who brought them food, rain or shine.
Amandinne. That kind nun. She longed to see her again.
— I'll go. I'll go to the church. But I want to see Amandinne.
The priest smiled in relief.
— Of course. Amandinne is waiting for us at the church.
Annabelle stopped.
One thing still didn't make sense.
Why hadn't Amandinne come?