**Paris, November 5, 2020**
Weeks slipped by, as cold and gray as the Parisian sky in late autumn. I had finally secured a job as a railway cleaning agent, thanks to that metro notice. The hours were as irregular as they were grueling: I began at four in the morning, while the city slept, and finished at noon, exhausted, with calloused hands and an aching back.
That morning, I was assigned to clean Charles de Gaulle - Étoile station. A vast, noisy hub where a few hurried, unseeing travelers already bustled about. I scrubbed a bench stained with mud and hardened gum, my face hidden under a cap, shoulders slumped from fatigue. My mind drifted to my bed, to warmth, to Dakar's sun…
Suddenly, my eye caught a forgotten bag on the platform—a sleek black leather piece, resting against a bin as if awaiting its owner. I glanced around. No one seemed to care. Travelers passed, indifferent.
I approached, hesitant. My first instinct was caution—we'd been trained to report suspicious packages. But this seemed merely lost. I lifted it gently. It was heavy, well-crafted. Inside, a crocodile-skin wallet, keys, a tablet, and… a folder stamped "PRÉSIDENCE DE LA RÉPUBLIQUE — CONFIDENTIEL."
My heart leapt. I looked around, panicked. If I alerted security, they'd ask a thousand questions, check my papers, perhaps detain me for hours. But leaving it there? No… I couldn't. My mother had raised me to respect others' belongings.
I took a deep breath and opened the wallet. Inside, an ID: Claire Vidal. A photo of a serious, elegant blonde woman. And on a badge, her title: "Cabinet Assistant to the President of the Republic."
I stood speechless. The bag belonged to someone close to the President! Without further thought, I rummaged through the wallet and found a crumpled business card with a mobile number scribbled on the back.
With a racing heart, I dialed. A tense, hurried female voice answered after several rings.
—Hello? Claire Vidal speaking.
I spoke quickly, nervously.
—Good morning, madam. I… I think I found your bag. In the metro. At Charles de Gaulle - Étoile.
A brief silence, then a sigh of immense relief.
—My God… Incredible. I… I've been searching everywhere. You are… who, madam?
—My name is Maya. I work here. As a cleaning agent.
Another silence, longer this time. I could almost hear her mind assessing the situation.
—Stay where you are, please. Don't move. I'm coming right away.
Twenty minutes later, a blonde woman in a flawless trench coat descended the stairs almost at a run. She spotted me instantly—the only still figure amid the indifferent crowd.
She approached, her gaze both anxious and intense.
—Maya, isn't it? I'm Claire Vidal.
I handed her the bag. She clutched it to her chest as if reclaiming a lost child.
—I don't know how to thank you. This bag contains highly sensitive documents. You could have… well, never mind. Your honesty is rare.
She looked at me properly for the first time. Her blue eyes softened, growing curious.
—You're Senegalese?
—Yes, madam. From Dakar.
A faint smile touched her lips.
—Senegal… A beautiful country. The President loves visiting there.
She hesitated, then pulled out an official business card.
—Here. Take this. If you ever need anything… or seek another job. The Élysée sometimes hires for temporary roles. Trustworthy people.
I took the card, stunned. The Élysée name was embossed in relief. I held it like a talisman.
—Thank you, madam. But… I only did what was right.
—Precisely. Today, what's right has become exceptional.
She nodded farewell and hurried back up the stairs, the bag pressed close.
I remained there, amid the station's clamor as trains rolled in, the sound nearly drowning my erratic heartbeat.
I had just met the President's personal assistant.
And suddenly, Paris felt a little less cold.