Before death.
Before the coffins.
Before the loneliness.
A few months earlier, it was still autumn — the season when the Reaper had not yet come.
The wind already carried, in its crisp gusts, the biting promises of winter. It made the last leaves dance in the dry air, tearing them from the trees with a discreet sigh. But none of that stopped Annabelle.
She was running.
Her boots beat the damp earth, kicking up clouds of gold and rust. The garden was carpeted with dead leaves, piled into thick waves by the winds of the previous day. She dove into them as if into a dream, disappearing for a moment before bursting out again in a crystalline laugh. Her scarf floated behind her like a red wool banner.
"Look, look, Mama! Papa, look!"
Her voice rang out clear, broken only by the breathlessness of her wild runs. She spun in place, arms open, hair clinging to her cheeks from effort and wind. The golden light of the afternoon caressed her pale skin, giving life to every movement with a vibrant glow.
Éléna, seated on the stone bench, looked up from her knitting at each call. Her smile stretched naturally, soft, a little tired. She wore a light gray coat that caught the sunlight like a veil.
Albert stood farther away, hands in his pockets, collar turned up. He watched the scene without saying a word, but his eyes sparkled. He barely blinked.
Annabelle stumbled into a pile of leaves, fell onto her back, and burst into laughter, making a leaf angel. She grabbed a handful of russet leaves and threw them into the air. Her arms opened wide as if to embrace the whole sky.
"I want to be a fairy!" she shouted. "The Autumn Fairy!"
She turned to her parents, hoping for a word, a gesture. Her mother raised her hand in a playful salute. Her father, after a second, tilted his head with a smile.
Everything felt suspended. The air, the light, the colors. A closed world. Perfect. Untouched.
But the cold, biting wind kept blowing.
It slipped under the door of the house, made the windows shiver, crept into the high branches. A low crack echoed somewhere behind the trees. Too far to be threatening. But not quite natural.
Annabelle didn't hear it.
She was still laughing.
The sun had slowly slipped behind the trees, tinting the windows with warm orange. The air had grown sharper, and the last leaves clinging to the branches crackled under gusts of wind.
The day was drawing to a close. Soon, it would be time to come inside.
Éléna, cheeks pink from the cold, called Annabelle in a soft, almost singing voice.
"Come in, sweetheart. Go wash your hands. Dinner's not going to cook itself."
In the kitchen, scents were already filling the air: simmered pork, sweet carrots, potatoes, soft turnips. Steam rose from the large pot and settled as fog on the panes, drawing blurry shapes that Annabelle traced with her finger, nose pressed to the glass.
Then she sat at the table, still in her scarf, hair slightly damp from splashing water on her face. Albert was already seated, elbows on the wood, a brown leather notebook open in front of him. He was scribbling something with a focused air but looked up as soon as she sat down beside him.
"What are you writing?" she asked, curious.
"Notes," he replied with a smile. "Work stuff. Want to take a look?"
She nodded eagerly, lifting herself up to see better. He turned the notebook toward her and showed a page filled with tight, fine handwriting, dotted with signs she didn't understand.
"You don't get any of it, do you?" he said, laughing softly.
"Not yet. But one day, I'll be able to read all of it. And I'll be a notary. Just like you."
He stared at her for a moment, surprised. Then he slowly closed the notebook and set it between them.
"That's what you want?"
"Yes! So I can make important papers. And listen to people's secrets. And help them too. But mostly the secrets."
Albert burst into laughter, a true, hearty laugh that warmed the room as much as the fire beneath the pot.
"There are a lot of secrets," he said. "More than you think."
"You think you'll teach me one day?" she asked, eyes gleaming.
He looked at her again, longer this time. Then he slowly nodded.
Albert set down the notebook slowly.
For a moment, he kept his hands flat on the table, without saying a word. Annabelle watched him, chin resting on her palm.
"How long from now?" she insisted, her eyes shining.
He lifted his gaze, but his look had changed. He was still there — in the room, in the moment — but a part of him seemed to have drifted somewhere else.
He smiled, but it took a moment to form.
"Yes... one day," he said.
He was about to say something more, but his lips closed again. A shiver ran through him. He lowered his eyes to his hand: his fingers were trembling slightly. He rubbed them together as if to warm them, casually.
Annabelle didn't notice. Or at least, she didn't know what to notice.
Then, a breeze slipped in through the poorly shut window. It carried a strange scent — not wood smoke, not food — something drier, more bitter. Albert froze. Just for a second. As if a distant, imperceptible sound had just vibrated inside him.
"Papa?" she asked.
He straightened.
"I'm fine," he said. "Just… a little headache."
And after a pause, half-voiced:
"I just hope… I'll have enough time."
Annabelle didn't understand what he meant.
But he didn't say it again.