**Paris, November 12, 2020**
The next day, a buzz of excitement filled the Élysée. The reception honoring African dignitaries was set for that evening. An electric energy pulsed through the corridors—a blend of protocol tension and restrained anticipation. Fresh flowers arrived in abundance, impeccably dressed servers rehearsed their routes, and the clink of glasses and cutlery rang like a precise symphony.
I was assigned a new task: overseeing the placement of name cards on a table draped in heavy blue velvet near the Salle des Fêtes entrance. Each name had to be aligned with meticulous precision, facing the direction from which the guests would arrive. A labor of ants, demanding absolute focus.
I applied myself diligently, spine straight, adjusting each silver holder, brushing away invisible dust, verifying every name on my list. So absorbed was I that I didn't notice the small group entering the room at first.
When I looked up, I saw them. President Macron, flanked by two advisors and Claire Vidal, was conducting a final inspection. He moved with steady purpose, his gaze sweeping the space, pausing on details: the height of the chandeliers, the arrangement of flags, the symmetry of the tables.
My heart tightened. I froze, hoping to melt into the background, to remain the discreet shadow I was meant to be. But his gaze—sharp and piercing as the day before—glided over the card table, then settled on me.
He stopped short.
This was no fleeting glance. His eyes fixed on me fully, with an intense, deliberate curiosity that pierced through me. It was no longer the quick scan of a leader overseeing his team but a sustained, purposeful attention.
I lowered my eyes, burning with confusion, pretending to focus on the card in my hands. I felt his gaze weigh on me for seconds that stretched into eternity. Silence fell around him, his advisors awaiting his next command.
He turned slightly toward Claire Vidal, though his eyes lingered on the table.
—Everything in order, Claire? he asked, his voice calm yet carrying distinctly through the vast room's stillness.
—Yes, Mr. President. The final preparations are complete, she replied with professional assurance.
His gaze returned to me, insistent, almost analytical.
—The new recruit? he inquired, his tone lower, almost confidential.
Claire followed his look, and a faint smile brushed her lips.
—Yes, Mr. President. Maya. Recommended for her reliability.
He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod, his eyes still on me. I stared desperately at the name "His Excellency Macky Sall, President of the Republic of Senegal" before me, feeling heat rise to my cheeks.
—Very well, he said at last.
And he moved on, his entourage trailing, continuing the inspection.
I remained there, breathless, legs trembling. He had asked who I was. He had spoken my name. In his voice, that simple word took on a new depth, a strange resonance.
The rest of the day unfolded like a dream. I carried out my duties mechanically, my mind anchored to that brief exchange. Each time I crossed paths with Claire Vidal, I sought a sign, a hint. But her face remained a mask of professionalism, unreadable.
It was only late afternoon, as I filed documents in a room adjacent to the protocol office, that Claire burst in.
—Maya, she said, handing me an envelope. Your attendance sheet to be signed by HR before you leave.
I took the envelope. As I turned to go, she added, in a neutral tone I sensed carried intent:
—The President appreciated the care taken with the card table. Precision is a rare quality.
She didn't smile. She didn't even blink. She turned and left, leaving me alone, the envelope pressed to my chest, heart racing.
He appreciated.
Those simple words, delivered with protocol restraint, echoed in me like a proclamation. They outshone all praise, all commendations.
The President of the Republic had noticed my work. He was pleased with it.
As I left the palace, the Parisian night's chill felt less biting. A new warmth, born of a glance and a phrase, glowed within me.
That night, Paris seemed brimming with possibilities.