The House Without Curtains, Part 2: The Night of the Vote

By late afternoon the house changed tempo. Not panic. Preparation.

Camille printed two pages of notes and then crossed out half the words because, she said, defensive language always sounds like guilt when read into a microphone. Mathieu checked times, addresses, parking, meeting order, then checked them again with the concentration of a man trying to keep ordinary life from being rewritten by strangers.

Léa sat at the kitchen table with coffee gone cold and watched the sun move across uncovered glass. She had imagined, vaguely, that courage would feel like heat. Instead it felt like administration.

At seventeen forty, a message from her ex-husband arrived: You missed your train? Everything ok?