Chapter Text
The sky over Lumière was veiled in a pink mist, as if the city itself were holding its breath.
In a greenhouse atop the highest floor, Gustave gazed at the monolith on the horizon — that black thorn stabbed into the sky. He absentmindedly tossed pebbles towards the monolith, like a child trying to shatter silence rather than glass.
At his side stood Maëlle, wearing a striped sailor shirt and a red scarf, her hands behind her back, shoulders slightly hunched. She was trying to comfort him without seeming to, with that tender awkwardness unique to teenagers who want to do well.
— “If you want to give a flower to a woman, it’s better to do it before she withers… and dies,” she joked softly.
Gustave took a deep breath. His left arm, mechanical, creaked against the metal railing. The gears let out a faint whir.
— “Who, exactly? The flower or Sophie?” he tried to joke, failing to hide the sadness in his voice.
Maelle didn’t answer. She knew. She knew everything.
Gustave had told her the story in scattered fragments — between late-night vigils, between nightmares. Sophie. His ex. The one he had loved until he lost his footing. The one who, out of fear of the Gommage, had never wanted children.
It was four in the afternoon. The Gommage would occur at dusk. All those turning thirty-three today would head to the Port. Some out of faith, others out of fear of disappearing alone, in the shadow of a wall or an empty corridor. As every year, the Paintress would awaken, engraving a new cursed number onto the monolith.
And the bodies would turn to flowers.
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He walked slowly through the familiar streets of Lumière.
His blue suit brushed against his legs, caught by a warm wind. The children were silent. The gas lamps hummed gently.
At the corners of alleyways, muffled whispers could be heard — families saying goodbye to their elders. Some laughed nervously.
Others were already crying.
Sophie was waiting by the red-and-white tree where they had once met. She chatted with friends, one last time, her face turned toward the golden afternoon light.
She wore a burgundy skirt, a blouse buttoned to the collar, and a matching beret tilted slightly. Around her neck hung the traditional Gommage necklace: red and white flowers mixed with artificial petals and sprigs of dried vervain. She was beautiful.
Beautiful like the first day.
They exchanged a few hesitant, stammered words, before agreeing on the only truth left: they still had a little time. And that time was worth gold.
They walked together to the port, and they talked. About everything. The past. Missed chances. The books she hadn’t finished. What he planned to take on the Expedition. The — infinitesimal — chances of survival. They laughed, a little.
A gentle melancholy accompanied each of their steps.
Then, crossing a small square, they stopped.
A young woman was playing guitar, seated atop a statue, eyes closed. Before her, a dozen silent passersby. She played without singing, a slow, suspended melody tinged with nostalgia. It was music for farewells.
— “That’s Lune,” Sophie whispered. “You two would make a beautiful couple.”
Gustave didn’t answer. He looked at Lune, for a long time. His mechanical arm vibrated imperceptibly.
He knew her well. She was more than a colleague. A true intellectual partner. Perhaps the only one in Lumière who could follow his thoughts without him having to simplify.
She really listened — even when he got lost in the details of his Lumina converter or the uncertain properties of Chroma.
He still remembered how she smiled when she solved an equation before he finished. Her eyes, shining with serene intelligence. Her voice, calm, never dishonest.
— “Or maybe something already happened…” Sophie murmured playfully.
He would have lied if he claimed he had never thought about it. Even Maëlle, with her too-sharp teenage intuition, had teased him about it. And now Sophie was joining in.
But every time that idea took form in his mind, a shadow swept it away. A shadow bearing Sophie’s name.
Or else he took refuge behind other excuses: “I have to take care of Maelle,” “It’s not the right time,” “The expedition is coming.”
Lies. Detours. None of it was true.
What was really stopping him from moving on? Why the weight on his chest? Why this sickly loyalty to a story that had ended? Maybe because a part of him had never truly closed that chapter.
And now, it was too late. In a few hours, Sophie would be nothing but a memory. They would leave on Expedition 33. And both of them would likely be dead next year.
Maybe that was his greatest regret.
He remained silent, and walked on beside Sophie. Not another word. Only the sound of footsteps on cobblestones, and the warm wind of dusk.
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The Port was black with people.
And yet, a heavy, almost sacred silence reigned there. Not a shout, not a breath louder than another. The thirty-three-year-olds had gathered. The living. The condemned. The last adults of a world turned child once more.
Gustave stood beside her. Straight. Frozen. Hands clammy, throat tight. Boats hadn’t sailed in years — the crossings had no destinations anymore. But people still came here. To say goodbye. To look at the sea one last time. To face the monolith.
Suddenly, the air vibrated.
A sound, deep at first, swelled in the sky: like a colossal cello string plucked by a divine hand. The wind shifted abruptly, blowing backward, lifting coats and strands of hair. Then the shadow appeared on the horizon.
The Paintress.
She rose, colossal, monstrous, her titanic silhouette etched against the reddening sky. Immeasurable. Inhuman. The outline of her body wavered, as if hastily painted in an unstable watercolor. And yet, every year, she returned. Inevitable.
With a slow, solemn gesture, she raised her arm.
And etched, onto the black surface of the monolith, a new number.
33.
Sophie turned her head toward Gustave.
He took her hand. Gently. As if that simple gesture could stop time. He tried a smile. But his lips trembled. He stifled a sob. His eyes were already brimming with tears.
— “I’m here…” he murmured, his voice hoarse, almost broken, trying to pour all the love, all the courage he had into that one sentence.
Sophie looked at him.
For a long time.
As if that look could be enough. As if the world could wait just a little longer.
— “I know… I know…” she whispered, her voice broken, her cheeks soaked with tears.
Then she stiffened.
Her breath ceased.
Her body became diaphanous. First transparent, then translucent, then… nothing. Nothing but a whisper in the air. A trail of extinguished light. And finally, a slow, silent rain of red petals falling at her feet, like a final goodbye.
Gustave collapsed to his knees.
He stared blankly at the horizon yawning under the setting sun. The Paintress had already retreated, vanishing back into her spectral stillness.
Around him, the crowd wept. Some aloud, others in silence, curled into themselves. Children clung to the hands of the survivors. Eyes turned away from the sky.
The world, now, was younger.
And lonelier.
That day, Gustave became one of the oldest men in the world.
He rose slowly, like waking from a painful dream. He wiped his tears with the back of his sleeve, without shame, without anger. Then he turned his back on the sea, on the monolith, on the trembling red petals at his feet.
And he walked, upright, silent, toward the shadow of the expedition to come.