It felt like a dream.
Not because it was perfect.
But because it was possible.
The foliage had parted like a curtain pulled back on a stage, and before us, the little village emerged in the soft morning light.
Wooden houses, shutters open, children running between the trees, lanterns hanging from branches. Everything felt alive, yet nothing shouted for attention.
Here, breathing felt gentle, as if each breath was a miracle no one dared rush.
Louis had not let go of my hand since we fled. Still now, he was there. He said nothing, but his eyes never left me.
With every step, I could feel him checking whether I stumbled. And when my knee trembled too much, he squeezed my hand just a bit tighter.
My father followed close behind. He didn't speak, his gaze somewhere far away. But his body spoke for him: he walked beside me, not in front. He no longer pushed me. He protected me.
An old man stepped forward. His skin was dark, weathered like ancient leather, his eyes filled with the calm one only finds after losing everything.
He looked at me for a long moment, and I felt that this gaze was not judgment. It was recognition.
— Welcome to our home, he said.
Just that. One sentence.
No interrogation. No prayer. No promise.
His name was Elias. He motioned for us to follow him to the main square, where a massive tree stood, its roots curling into the ground like a throne for the earth.
Women, children, a few men watched us. But in their eyes there was no fear, no hostility. Just a quiet waiting.
Louis whispered in my ear:
— Do you want to sit? Do you want to drink something? Do you want me to help you lie down?
I just shook my head. No. I wanted to see, to feel, to understand.
A woman handed me a bowl of fresh water. I took it in my hands, feeling the coolness run down to my wrists. I had never tasted water so pure.
Elias sat on a stump, and everyone formed a circle around him. He spoke calmly.
— This village was born from escape. I came from the city of New Bâton, like many here. There, you live in comfort, but die in silence. I had a daughter…
He paused. His fingers trembled against his knee.
— She was like you. Defiant. Pure. Alive. She wanted to fight. And I… I let her go. I thought she would come back. But one day, the abbots told me she was dead. No explanation. No body. Just… words. Words that said nothing. So I fled. With my other children, my wife, and those who still believed we could live differently. I am not proud of my actions. At first, I drowned in guilt, not knowing how to avenge her. Many times, I thought of going back to confront them, to erase them from the earth. But who are we against such a system? Nothing. One man alone cannot defeat his demons.
A heavy silence fell over the circle. Then he lifted his eyes to me.
— You don't have to tell your story. We know. This isn't the first time. But if you want to speak, we'll be here. All of us. Not to judge you, but to carry you.
My lips trembled. I couldn't speak.
Louis gently ran his hand along my back — just above the burn — and I saw in his eyes that he remembered.
He had seen the red-hot iron. He had seen my skin sear under the cross. And yet, he never looked at me as if I were broken.
— Are you okay? he whispered again. Want to walk a bit? I can carry your bag… or help you sit? Do you want to eat? Tell me…
I had never known a love so attentive. Not suffocating. Just… present.
A few steps away, my father was speaking with a man from the village. I barely heard them. But I saw his gaze linger on Louis.
— He doesn't leave her for a second, my father murmured. He's always there… It's more than love. He watches over her as if his life depends on it.
The villager nodded.
— That's rare. When it's real, you can see it. You're lucky, old man.
And my father… smiled. A real smile. But a sad one.
Because in that smile, he saw Madame Dumas again.
His wife.
The one he never truly loved.
The one he married to fill a void.
To forget a past.
That night, when everyone had gone home, he kissed my forehead. And in his eyes, I saw he had made a decision.
He would go back. Return to the big city. End his lie.
Night fell. The village faded gently into quiet.
Louis handed me a blanket. He placed a makeshift pillow under my head and lay beside me — without touching me, but close enough for me to feel his breath.
— Sleep, Mylova. Tomorrow, you will live. Not survive. Live.
And for the first time, I believed it.