The train pulled into Gare de Lyon just past dawn.
Outside, the early Paris fog spread over the platforms, blurring the edges of the city.
Inside the carriage, Moreau sat quietly by the window, watching the station come into view.
His coat was buttoned to the collar and the carved wooden figure from Tomas sat in his breast pocket.
Across from him, Renaud shifted in his seat, stretching his good arm.
"You think anyone's going to be there?" he asked.
Moreau didn't respond immediately.
He watched a man sweep cigarette butts from the edge of the track.
"Depends," he finally muttered.
"On whether they prefer stories over ghosts."
The train slowed down as it came to a stop, the doors opened.
The platform was quiet at first.
Then came the sound boots.
Dozens of them.
Marching in precise formation.
Soldiers in full dress uniform lined the exit ramp, shoulder to shoulder, their rifles slung and polished.
