The atmosphere beyond the clinic entrance was not air. It held the aromas of Valence—freshly baked bread from the bakery nearby diesel exhaust and the moist leafy fragrance of the Isère River.. The sensation, on Giovanni's skin was different. This was air he had willingly decided to walk into.
He lingered at the doorway for moments Jacques quietly observant directly behind him, in the entrance. No grand announcement, no goodbye. Arthur remained indoors wrapping up some notes. Maria was placing a bunch of dried sage. Isabella spoke on the phone her tone a steady recognizable murmur. It happened to be a Tuesday afternoon.
Giovanni moved forward. Then he took another step. The ground beneath his feet was firm. He veered left leaving the downtown area heading toward the tree-lined trail, alongside the river. Jacques matched his pace, a shadow given shape and intent steps behind.
He walked past a pair whispering in tense clipped voices on a bench. A sudden warmth on his shoulder blade—a deceit, about missing an anniversary. He registered it a acrid sting and continued onward. It did not catch him. It was the atmosphere.
A young guy riding a bike dashed by yelling into his phone. "I'll be there in ten minutes, max!" A chilly smooth feeling on Giovanni's wrist. The illusion of time. He observed the bike vanish. The feeling vanished like a wave, in a pond.
He wasn't obstructing it. He wasn't submerged by it. He was… steering. The maze, on his forearm lay silent a landscape.
He arrived at a park where the river grew broader. Kids yelled on the playground. An elderly man was feeding pigeons. Ordinary everyday sounds. He settled on a bench and Jacques positioned himself leaning against a nearby plane tree, his gaze calm and unthreatening just watching the world that was now cautiously permitted to approach his ward.
Giovanni shut his eyes. He allowed the noises to surround him. The laughter was largely genuine. A mother's reprimand contained a spark of affection beneath its severity. The elderly man whispering to the pigeons conveyed nonsensical truths.
He flipped open his notebook, an ally, to his skin. He refrained from documenting the falsehoods. Instead he penned a sentence: "The noise of pigeons is a muted gentle reality."
A presence came to rest on the seat next, to him. It wasn't Jacques. He recognized the burden of that quiet. This one was softer. Bore its own seriousness.
His eyes fluttered open. It was Raphael Ronald. The detective had changed out of his suit. Was dressed in a battered leather jacket. In his hands he carried two paper coffee cups. He extended one toward Giovanni.
"No restraints today " Raphael remarked, his tone rough yet gentle.
Giovanni grabbed the coffee. "Is this a visit?"
"It's a stroll. I'm off duty." Raphael drank his coffee while gazing at the river. "The Lacroix case. Fresh evidence. A witness emerged from a village. Noticed a van that wasn't theirs. It's a clue. It might go nowhere.. It's a clue because we investigated another location."
Giovanni remained silent. The hollow space, in his heart was a remembrance, not a pain.
"Your book " Raphael went on. "I finished reading it."
Giovanni was taken aback. ". Then?"
"It exhausted me. In a sense. The burden of it." Raphael glanced at him his detective's gaze catching every detail. Now tinged with something akin, to admiration. "You didn't pen it as a hero.. As a victim. You wrote it to comprehend the burden. I get that."
"What occurs next?" Giovanni inquired. "For me?"
Raphael shrugged. "Formally? You're a case. A medical outlier who contributed to an investigation and later authored a captivating book. Informally?" He hesitated. "Individuals like Lancelot will recall you. Those, with influence and insurmountable issues. They could come calling. You'll need to choose whether to respond."
"I've made up my mind " Giovanni declared, realizing he truly meant it. "I refuse to be a pawn, for their issues."
Raphael nodded, as though that response was anticipated. "So you survive.. You move.. You write, if that's your choice." He rose, crushing his cup. "Helena Helga was seen in Minsk. Then Istanbul. She's a phantom. A wounded phantom. She'll keep fleeing until she hits a barrier or a bullet. Siegfried is delivering a set of lectures at a university, in Zurich. He's well-known within a highly self-satisfied circle."
". How, about you?" Giovanni inquired.
Raphael offered a sincere smile. "I return to my job. Cases involving footprints, fingerprints and motives that although harsh generally add up in a logical way. It will seem like a break." He started to leave then paused. "For what it's worth Graham. The truth you hold… it's a burden.. The world loses something vital every time a witness is silenced. Keep moving "
He departed, merging with the midday pedestrian flow. Giovanni completed his coffee, the heat a steadying truth.
He continued walking for another hour with Jacques as a reassuring presence by his side. He purchased a peach at a street stand. Consumed it beside the water the juice rich and genuine on his palate. He noticed a dozen falsehoods from those passing by—the sharpness of a feigned grin the coldness of a brag the slight sting of concealed jealousy. These were, like stones tossed into the lake of his consciousness. They created waves. They did not alter the waters depth.
As twilight started to tint the sky with shades of purple and amber he headed back to the clinic. It wasn't a prison or a refuge anymore. It was a place he was coming back, to. A home base.
Isabella stood outside resting her back, against the wall. When Jacques kept the door open she matched his pace. "Did you enjoy the walk?"
"Silence " he said. Then since it was the honest remark he added, "It was enjoyable."
Within Arthur prepared the evening meal. A basic dish of soup and bread. They dined collectively around the kitchen table—Arthur, Maria, Isabella, Giovanni. Jacques consumed his share standing by the window his task integrated into the night's cadence. Their conversation touched on matters. A recent book Maria discovered. A patient Arthur felt concern, for. A tale Isabella pursued concerning garden funding, a mercifully ordinary scandal.
Giovanni paid attention. He experienced. He experienced the amber radiance of Arthur's silent worry (truth). The radiant, weave of Maria's instinctive understanding (a truth surpassing mere facts). The crisp precise edge of Isabella's inquisitiveness (truth).. At the core the unwavering solid rock of Jacques' faithfulness (the most profound form of truth).
No fresh marks appeared on his skin. Just the aged ones, dimmed into a collection of scars and the labyrinth, a sealed diagram, on his forearm.
Afterwards inside his room he faced the mirror. Removing his shirt he examined the man shown. A mosaic of silver and black of marks and symbols of a labyrinth and countless minute trails. He wasn't a man. He never would be.
However he was no longer the individual who hid away in a library overwhelmed by ink. He was not the escapee in the mountain cabin. He was not the exhibit, in the courtroom.
His name was Giovanni Graham. The world's deceptions had marked him. Now he responded in kind.
He slipped his shirt over his head. Grasping his notebook and a pen he took a seat at his desk, near the window gazing out into the night. The initial city lights began to illuminate each representing a tale a fact, a falsehood, a life.
He refrained from describing the sensations, on his skin. It was unnecessary. That account had already been documented.
Rather he began anew on a sheet. At the top he penned a heading intended solely for himself: Chapter Two.
Underneath he penned the sentence.
"The journey back feels longer when you are aware that you are truly heading home."
Outside, the city hummed with its endless, beautiful, deceitful, truthful life. And inside, in the quiet room, a man who had been a living archive began to write his own story, one true word at a time.