The night had settled heavily over Saint-Clair, blanketing the small village in a deep, oppressive silence. The only sound that reached Amélie's ears as she lay in bed was the faint creaking of the cottage beams and the soft, rhythmic breathing of her mother, Marguerite, asleep in the next room.
The dim light of the oil lamp flickered on her bedside table, casting long shadows across the room. Amélie stared up at the wooden beams, her heart pounding in her chest. She had made her decision earlier that day with Luisa, and now, as the village slept, she was about to put it into action.
Leaving.
The very thought of it made her stomach twist. This cottage, this village, had been her whole world for twenty years. But now, as much as it pained her, Amélie knew she couldn't stay. Not if she ever wanted to know the truth about her father, about who she truly was.
Still, the hardest part wasn't the act of leaving- it was the thought of leaving her mother behind.
Marguerite had always been strong, at least on the surface. She had raised Amélie on her own, facing the judgment and whispers of the villagers with a quiet resilience. But underneath that strength, Amélie had always sensed something fragile in her mother-something that broke just a little bit more every time someone called her daughter "une enfant de Boche."
Amélie had seen that pain, though her mother had never spoken about it directly. There was an unspoken agreement between them: the past was a locked door, one that Marguerite had firmly shut, and Amélie had never dared to open it. Until now.
Turning her head slightly, Amélie's gaze fell on the small wooden door that separated her room from her mother's. She could almost hear Marguerite's voice, low and steady, reminding her of all the reasons she should stay. The village was cruel, yes, but it was safe. And beyond the borders of Saint-Clair, the world was still full of uncertainty and danger.
Her heart ached at the thought of leaving without saying goodbye. But Amélie knew her mother too well. Marguerite would never let her go willingly; she would try to keep her safe, locked in the security of their small, isolated life. And Amélie… she couldn't live like that anymore.
She slipped out of bed as quietly as she could, her bare feet touching the cold floor. Every movement felt amplified in the stillness of the night- the rustling of her sheets, the soft creak of the floorboards beneath her weight. Amélie held her breath, listening for any sign that her mother had stirred, but there was only the soft rise and fall of Marguerite's breath.
Amélie had prepared for this moment earlier that evening. While her mother was out in the garden gathering herbs, she had packed a small satchel with the essentials: a few changes of clothes, some bread wrapped in cloth, and the little money she had saved over the years from odd jobs around the village. It wasn't much, but it would have to be enough.
Amid the swirling thoughts, her hand absentmindedly traced the pendant- the necklace her father had given her, the only clue she had about him... Amélie sighed softly, but within her heart, she felt a growing sense of resolve and determination. It was as if, through this pendant, the father she had never met was somehow giving her strength.
But before leaving, she knew she had to write a letter to her mother. Sitting at the small table, she took a deep breath and began to write:
Dear Mother,
I can't stay here any longer. I must go and find my father, the man I've never met but feel so compelled to seek. I know this will worry you, but please understand- I need to know the truth about who I am.
Luisa will be with me. She lost her mother recently and now feels adrift, just like I do. Together, we will seek answers and, perhaps, a sense of belonging.
Please forgive me for leaving without saying goodbye. I promise to write and let you know how I am.
With all my love,
Amélie
After sealing the letter, Amélie felt a mixture of fear and determination. She took one last look at the small space she had called home for so many years. It wasn't much, but it was everything she had ever known.
Her throat tightened. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe she should stay and try to live the life her mother had always wanted for her- a quiet life, free of danger, where the only battles were fought in whispers behind closed doors.
But deep down, Amélie knew she couldn't do that. She had outgrown Saint-Clair, outgrown the smallness of her world and the limitations placed on her by the circumstances of her birth. As much as it hurt to leave, the pull of the unknown- the possibility that her father was still out there somewhere- was stronger than the fear.
She turned toward the door, the cold metal of the doorknob chilling her hand. Every fiber of her being told her to stop, to turn back, to crawl into bed and forget this foolishness. But her feet moved on their own, propelling her forward into the unknown.
The door creaked softly as she opened it, and Amélie froze, her heart leaping into her throat. She held her breath, waiting for the sound of her mother's voice, for the creak of her mother's bed as she stirred.
But there was only silence.
Slowly, Amélie exhaled and slipped out into the narrow hallway. The kitchen was just beyond, and her mother's room was to the left. The door to Marguerite's room was slightly ajar, and through the crack, Amélie could see the faint outline of her mother's figure, curled under the thin blanket.
She hesitated, then quietly made her way across the kitchen. The satchel felt heavier with every step, as if the weight of her decision was growing, becoming almost too much to bear.
The door to the outside world loomed ahead of her, a barrier between the safety of the home she knew and the uncertainty of what lay beyond. For a moment, her hand trembled on the latch, doubt flooding her mind once again. But then she thought of Luisa, waiting for her near the outskirts of the village, and her resolve hardened.
She had to go. She had to know.
The door opened with a soft creak, and the cool night air washed over her, sharp and crisp. Amélie stepped out into the darkness, pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders as the chill of the early autumn night bit into her skin. The village was silent, the only light coming from the pale glow of the moon hanging low in the sky.
Amélie paused on the threshold, taking one last look at the cottage. The familiar scent of herbs and wood smoke lingered in the air, a reminder of the life she was leaving behind. Her chest tightened with a mixture of guilt and sorrow, but she forced herself to keep moving.
Every step felt heavier than the last as she made her way through the village, the familiar cobblestones beneath her feet seeming almost foreign in the moonlight. The narrow streets were empty, the houses dark and silent, but Amélie could feel the weight of the village's judgment pressing down on her, even now.
At the edge of Saint-Clair, near the line of trees that separated the village from the dense forest beyond, Luisa stood waiting. Her figure was a shadow against the dark backdrop of the woods, her blonde hair catching the faint light of the moon.
When Amélie reached her, Luisa gave her a small smile- one that held a mixture of relief and understanding. "I wasn't sure if you'd come," she said softly, her voice almost lost in the quiet of the night.
Amélie nodded, her throat too tight to speak. She glanced back at the village, at the small, distant shape of the cottage where her mother slept, blissfully unaware of what was happening.
"I couldn't stay," Amélie whispered, more to herself than to Luisa. "Not anymore."
Luisa nodded, her eyes soft with empathy. "Neither could I."
With a shared understanding, the two young women took their first steps into the unknown, leaving behind the only home they had ever known.