February settled over Besançon like a cat on a radiator—slowly, without asking permission.
At 8 Branly Street, a routine began to take shape. New. Fragile. Like a pencil sketch a gust of wind could erase.
Williams and Allison left together every morning at seven thirty. Same bus. Same bank. Same coffee break at ten in the back room, the one with the machine that sounded like a tractor. They went home together in the evenings. Sometimes they cooked at his place. Sometimes at hers. Sometimes they didn't cook at all and ate cereal standing up in the kitchen, arguing over which movie to watch.
Stephanie watched them from her window. Not out of curiosity—for a landlord's instinct. She liked knowing who was doing what in her building.
—They're cute, Timothe said as he walked behind her.
—They're tenants.
—The two aren't incompatible.
Stephanie didn't answer. But the corner of her mouth moved—a millimeter. Timothe saw it. He said nothing. He'd learned.
Mike, meanwhile, had no visible routine.
He went out at night. Came home at dawn. His shutters stayed closed all day. Sometimes they heard the sound of a keyboard—steady, relentless, like someone digging a tunnel with his fingers. Then silence. Then the keyboard again.
Allison had decided to tame him.
—Hi, Mike! she'd call every morning as she passed his door.
No answer. Ever. But one morning, she noticed the peephole darken as she walked by. He was watching.
—He's watching, she told Williams on the bus.
—So?
—So it's a start. People who watch want to be seen. They just don't know it yet.
Williams looked at her. That look. The one he didn't know he had.
—You're weird, he said.
—And you're in love with me, she replied with a laugh.
She said it like a joke. The way she always said it. And Williams laughed too, because laughing was easier than answering.
Tatum tried too.
One Sunday afternoon, she came downstairs with a plate of brownies. She knocked on Mike's door. Three times. Softly.
The door opened five inches. An eye.
—Hi, Tatum said. I'm Tatum. Second floor. I made you some brownies.
Silence.
—You can take them without opening the door. I'll leave them here.
She set the plate on the floor in front of the door. Took a step back.
—Have a good day, Mike.
She went back upstairs. As she passed the stairs, she turned around. The door had opened a little farther. A hand—slender, pale, with ink on its index finger—took the plate.
The next day, the plate was in front of Tatum's door. Clean. With a sticky note: “Thank you. Very good.”
Tatum smiled. She stuck the note on the fridge.
—What's that? Jimmy asked.
—Progress.
Timothe tried the direct approach.
One Saturday morning, he knocked on Mike's door with two coffees and a golden-retriever smile.
—Hi! I'm Timothe. I'm Stephanie's husband. The landlord. The scary one. I don't scare people. Here, coffee.
The door opened ten inches. A record.
Mike appeared. Not all the way—a half-face. Messy brown hair. Three-day stubble. Bags under his eyes like suitcases. And that eye—always the same one, brown and shadowed, watching the world as if the world might bite.
—Thanks, Mike said.
He took the coffee. His fingers trembled a little.
—What do you do? Timothe asked.
—I write.
—Books?
—Novels.
—That's cool! I've never read an entire novel. Stephanie says that's shameful. But I've read comic books. Does that count?
Mike looked at him. Something shifted in his face—not a smile, not yet, but the shadow of a smile. The ghost of a ghost of a smile.
—It counts, Mike said.
—Want to come upstairs for a coffee sometime? You don't have to. No pressure. Just if you feel like it.
—I... We'll see.
—Cool. Have a good day, Mike.
Timothe went back upstairs whistling. Mike closed the door. But this time, he didn't lock it.
That evening, Williams and Allison were in the courtyard. March was approaching. The air was still cold, but the sky was opening up a little—those late-winter evenings when you can feel that something is about to change.
Allison sat on the low wall, her legs dangling. Williams stood beside her, his hands in his pockets.
—Did your dad talk to you today? Allison asked.
—No.
—Did he look at you?
—He looked through me. That's not the same thing.
—It's a start.
—It's not a start. It's polite contempt.
Allison didn't answer. She swung her legs. Her white sneakers—always the same ones, always dirty—brushed the dead rosebush running along the wall.
—He'll come back, she said.
—How do you know?
—Because you came back. And the apple never falls far from the tree.
Williams looked at her. In the light of the courtyard's streetlamp, her eyes were almost golden. He thought of something. He didn't say it.
—Come on, he said. Let's go inside. You're cold.
—I'm not cold.
—You're getting goosebumps.
—It's not the cold.
She said it without thinking. Then she jumped off the wall too quickly, as if to erase what she'd just said. Williams didn't comment. But he smiled. And Allison saw that smile, and she knew he'd understood, and she knew she'd understood, and they went inside without saying a word, shoulder to shoulder, in the conspiratorial silence of two people who know and don't say.