**Paris, November 23, 2020**
The Rue de Grenelle studio was a silent cocoon, a sanctuary severed from the world. In those first days, I drifted as if weightless, like an astronaut lost in space. I barely dared step outside, fearing a glance or question might betray my presence here. Groceries arrived discreetly at the door. My world shrank to the pristine walls of my refuge and the mesmerizing view of Paris's zinc rooftops.
Then the first message came—not an email, but a text on a new phone with an unfamiliar SIM card, delivered with the rest. The number was unregistered. The message was brief.
"This view is less beautiful than yours. E.M."
I rushed to the window, heart pounding. Nothing. Just the elegant gray of the rooftops, chimneys smoking peacefully. Then I understood. He wasn't watching me. He was thinking of me. Somewhere, in his faded-gilt office, he was thinking of me and this view.
After a long hesitation, fingers trembling, I replied.
"It's less noisy than the metro. Thank you. For everything."
His response came almost instantly.
"The noise of power is far louder than train cars. Rest."
That marked the beginning. Short, spaced-out messages, always signed with his initials. Simple, polite questions. "Have you found the books in the library?" He'd had the shelves stocked. "Is the heating working well?" Pretexts. Bridges cast between his world and mine.
Then, one evening as night fell early over Paris, a call. The same voice, deeper over the phone, stripped of the echo of official halls.
—Maya. How are you?
—I… I'm well, Mr. President.
—Emmanuel, he said gently. Call me Emmanuel. We're not at the Élysée.
The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken truths, erasing boundaries with that single phrase.
—Emmanuel, I repeated, the name tasting forbidden, like stolen fruit.
He laughed, a brief, relaxed sound.
—Good. Listen, I… I have a dinner Thursday. It'll end late. Very late.