Madame Élodie Fournier knew everyone.
Alina realized this the moment she stepped into Les Repas de la Famille that evening and felt the room shift—not dramatically, not with announcement, but with recognition. Élodie stood near the counter, hands folded over her apron, speaking to a man Alina had seen before but never properly noticed. When Élodie glanced up and caught sight of her, her face brightened in a way that felt personal without being possessive.
"Ah," she said. "You came."
"I said I would," Alina replied, smiling.
Élodie nodded, satisfied. "You did. Good."
There was something about the way she said it—as if promises here were not performance, but simple facts. You came, therefore you were welcome.
"Come," Élodie added, already turning. "They are setting up."
The book club gathered at the long wooden table near the back, the one that bore the marks of many dinners and many conversations. Chairs had been pulled into a loose circle. Not matching. Not arranged with precision. Some were closer than others, some angled slightly away, as if even the furniture was allowed its preferences.
People arrived in small clusters, greeting one another with easy familiarity.
Élodie moved through the room like a current, touching shoulders lightly, exchanging brief words, placing cups of tea where they were needed before anyone asked. She did not introduce herself to Alina again. She did not need to.
She simply placed a hand briefly at Alina's back and guided her toward an empty chair.
"You sit here," she said.
Alina did.
Across from her sat the silver-haired woman with sharp glasses she had noticed before. To her left, a young man in a worn sweater flipped through a paperback, dog-eared and well-loved. Further along, a couple in their forties murmured quietly, their knees touching, comfortable in shared silence.
Élodie clapped her hands once—not loudly, just enough to gather attention.
"Bonsoir," she said. "We have someone new."
Several faces turned toward Alina with mild curiosity, not scrutiny.
"This is Alina," Élodie continued.
Just Alina.
No surname. No elaboration.
Alina felt a flicker of relief she hadn't known she was holding.
"Bienvenue," the silver-haired woman said, smiling. "I'm Claire."
"Thomas," said the young man, lifting his book in greeting.
Introductions followed in the same way—names offered simply, occupations unmentioned unless someone volunteered them in passing. No one asked the question Alina had learned to anticipate.
What do you do?
Where are you from, really?
Who are you connected to?
Instead, Claire leaned forward slightly and asked, "What are you reading these days?"
Alina considered the question.
"Several things," she said honestly. "Nothing finished yet."
Claire nodded approvingly. "That's usually a good sign."
Laughter rippled softly around the table.
Élodie settled into a chair at the edge of the circle, not positioning herself at the center. Someone poured wine. Someone else declined. No comment was made either way.
"This week," Élodie said, "we talk about beginnings."
She gestured to the stack of books in the middle of the table—mismatched spines, different languages, different eras.
"Not first chapters," she clarified. "Beginnings we notice only after we are already inside."
Thomas spoke first, referencing a novel about exile and return. Claire followed, drawing parallels to a memoir she had reread after retirement. Others joined in, the conversation meandering without losing its thread.
Alina listened.
She had learned, over time, that listening was not passive. It was a form of participation that required attention, generosity, and restraint. Here, it was welcomed.
When someone asked her what she thought, it was not a test. It was an invitation.
"I think," Alina said slowly, "that beginnings feel different when you aren't trying to escape something. When you aren't proving anything. They're quieter. Almost… private."
There was a pause.
Then Claire smiled. "Yes," she said. "That."
No one pressed further. No one asked from what or from whom.
The discussion continued, weaving between texts and personal reflections without blurring the boundary between the two. People disagreed gently. Someone changed their mind mid-sentence and laughed at themselves. Élodie intervened only to refill cups or to redirect the conversation when it drifted too far into monologue.
At one point, a woman Alina hadn't met yet leaned over and whispered, "Élodie remembers what everyone drinks. And who doesn't."
"I believe it," Alina whispered back.
The woman grinned. "She knows everyone."
By the end of the evening, the table felt warmer—not because of the wine or the food, but because familiarity had begun to settle. Not intimacy. Not yet.
Just recognition.
As chairs were pushed back and coats gathered, Élodie approached Alina again.
"You did well," she said.
Alina blinked. "At… reading?"
Élodie waved a dismissive hand. "At being."
It wasn't praise. It wasn't instruction.
It was observation.
"Come again next week," Élodie added. "Same time."
"I will," Alina said, and knew she meant it.
As she stepped outside into the cool night air, Alina felt something steady beneath her ribs—not excitement, not relief.
Belonging, perhaps.
But not the kind that demanded loyalty or explanation.
The kind that existed because you showed up, and kept showing up, as yourself.
She walked home slowly, the streets familiar now, the silence companionable.
Inside her house, she placed the book she had brought back on the shelf, next to others she had begun collecting. Evidence of time passing. Of a life accumulating meaning in small, deliberate ways.
She thought of Élodie—of how she had introduced her with nothing but her first name. Of how she had known exactly when to speak and when to step back.
The grandma who knows everyone, Alina thought.
And somehow, without effort, had made room for her too.
She turned off the light and went to bed, the quiet settling around her like a promise she did not need to name.
Tomorrow, she would wake, go to the market, perhaps return to the restaurant for lunch. Perhaps not.
Either way, she would be known there.
As Alina.
And that, she realized as sleep came easily, was more than enough.