The morning after New Year's.
The streets were quiet.
Étienne stood at the window in his old room, shirt sleeves rolled, watching the stillness outside.
He heard a quiet knock on the doorframe and turned.
His father stood there, coat in hand.
"Come walk with me," he said.
Étienne nodded, took his heavier wool coat from the chair, and followed.
They said nothing at first.
The city was just beginning to wake up bakers opening shutters, dogs stretching beside quiet doorsteps, a newspaper boy around the corner.
His security details spread around everywhere but still giving enough space to both father and son.
His father led him down familiar roads.
Past the boulangerie where Étienne had once saved coins to buy croissants after school.
Past the little bookstore with the green awning.
They walked slowly with a kind of silence shared by men who had never been strangers but had never quite learned how to say everything, either.
They turned into a small park.
