I spend the whole night staring at that message as if it could change meaning.
"You don't know who he really is. Be careful with him."
Six words.
No identifiable sender.
And the sharp feeling that they were written by someone who knew exactly where to aim.
In the morning, Mila shows up with a thermos of coffee and the face of someone ready to launch a national investigation.
"Show me."
I hand her my phone.
She reads, grimaces.
"Masked number?"
"Or unknown. No picture, no profile."
"Could be anyone," she sighs.
"Yeah. Except this 'be careful with him' it's too specific."
Mila lifts her chin, determined.
"Okay. We're going full detective."
She pulls out her laptop, connects her phone, types faster than I ever could.
"I'm running a reverse lookup on the number," she says.
A few seconds pass.
Then she frowns.
"Weird. This number has been registered multiple times on forums—under different identities."
"What?"
"Like an 'N.L.' in Lyon, a 'Nathan L.' on a photography site in Bordeaux… and another one who commented under one of Noah's exhibitions two years ago."
I straighten up.
"Wait. An exhibition?"
"Yeah. Forgot he used to show his work."
She pulls up a blog article: "Lost Gazes — Photography by Noah Léger."
A picture accompanies the text.
I recognize his style immediately: blurry, nostalgic, almost haunted.
But one detail hooks me: a silhouette in the corner of the frame.
I zoom in.
A man.
Same build as Noah. Same profile.
"It's… him?" I whisper.
"Or his brother."
Mila crosses her arms.
"You see what I'm thinking?"
"No…"
"Maybe Nathan never disappeared."
I step back, breath knocked out of me.
"You think he's still in Paris?"
"Possible. Or he wants Noah to think he is."
A shiver runs through me.
I reread the message. The words twist into something darker.
What if it was Nathan?
What if he found me through Noah?
In the afternoon, I head to the studio.
Not to see him just to understand.
When I arrive, the door is slightly open.
Inside, the place is dim, empty.
A few photos scattered on the floor, as if he left in a hurry.
My heartbeat spikes.
On the table, a notebook.
I recognize it: the red-covered "book" he always carried.
But inside no novel.
Notes.
Hastily scratched phrases:
"See her here again."
"Is Nathan following me?"
"She must not know until I'm sure."
I freeze.
"She."
It's me.
I step back, gripping the notebook.
My phone vibrates: a message from Noah.
"Where are you?"
I don't reply.
"I want to explain."
"Not here."
"Come to the canal. Alone."
Fear surges through me.
Mila said it a hundred times: girls who "come alone" always end up in the news.
And yet… a part of me wants to go.
Because if I don't, I'll never know.
I warn Mila.
"I'm going. Canal. If I text 'umbrella', call the police."
She answers instantly:
"Léna DON'T. Wait for me."
"I need to understand."
The canal is almost empty.
The wind makes the lights dance on the water.
I clutch the red notebook to my chest.
Then I see him.
Noah.
Sitting on the bench. The same one. Again.
He stands as soon as I appear.
"You came."
"Tell me the truth, Noah. Who sent me that message?"
He lowers his eyes.
"I don't know."
"Don't lie to me."
He steps closer.
"Léna, I swear… but someone is playing with us."
Before I can answer, my phone vibrates again.
A new message.
Same number.
"He's not alone."
I look up.
And behind Noah, standing on the bridge, a silhouette freezes.
Same height.
Same stance.
Noah's reflection in the night.