Annabelle remains frozen, her eyes still fixed on the edge of the woods. The snapping of twigs echoes once again, clearer, closer.
She furrows her brow. Two silhouettes slowly emerge from the undergrowth, outlined against the shadows of the trees.
One is tall, imposing, a massive figure. Georges. He stumbles forward, his movements clumsy, as if the roots were deliberately clutching at his feet. A thick beard covers his face, barely concealing a confused expression, but his broad build offers a strange contrast to his awkward gait.
Behind him, a shorter man follows, stockier, his round face radiating an unmistakable kindness. Nicolas. He is more composed, more measured, his calm smile softening the heaviness of his brother's presence.
Annabelle watches them in silence, her throat tight.
A strange mix of curiosity, hope, and frustration washes over her. Strangers. Family she has never met. Her uncles. A fleeting relief stirs in her chest at the thought of a blood connection. But just as quickly as it comes, it is swallowed by resentment. Why them? Why now?
Georges stumbles over another root and grunts, barely catching his balance. He straightens up, casting an embarrassed glance at his brother, then at Annabelle.
Nicolas smiles, gentle, his eyes shining with a clumsy kind of care.
"Hello, Annabelle." His voice is meant to be reassuring. But there's something in the way he looks at her that betrays a silent expectation.
"Sorry, we took a bit of time to get here..."
Annabelle doesn't respond right away. She stares at them, her eyes gleaming with countless emotions. Every muscle in her body is tense, her heart pounding faster. She searches their faces, looking for something she cannot find. They are here, but she doesn't know them. No more than she would know any strangers.
The wind stirs the leaves around them, but the silence that follows is heavy.
A sniffle breaks the quiet. Subtle at first, almost imperceptible, then more pronounced, like a breath held for too long.
Annabelle slowly shifts her gaze away from Nicolas. Without her noticing, Georges has stepped forward. His broad shoulders tremble with a barely contained shudder. He stands, frozen, before the grave.
His massive body seems crushed beneath an invisible weight. The man who hadn't seen her mother in over a decade. The man who had received no other letters than the mayor's curt note announcing her death. The man who had lost her long before today, because of a disagreement that had carved a chasm between them.
A rough breath escapes his chest. He takes a step forward, then another, hesitant, as though the ground itself might crumble beneath him. His hand reaches out and rests on the cold stone.
Annabelle flinches.
The gesture is identical to her own.
Exactly where she had placed her hand before, during the funeral. And now Georges mimics the same motion, unconscious, instinctive. As if a fragile, invisible thread connects them in this suspended moment.
Nicolas, standing slightly behind, watches the scene, his face etched with remorse. His usually peaceful features are marked by a silent exhaustion. He exhales a long, weary sigh, and a solitary tear slowly rolls down his pale cheek, tracing the lines of his age-worn skin.
With a deliberate motion, he removes his top hat, lowers it to his side, and closes his eyes.
A silent tribute.
The wind sweeps through the trees, stirring the fallen leaves into a fleeting whirlwind. The air is thick with unspoken words, impossible goodbyes, and regrets heavy as chains.
Annabelle watches Georges. She steps forward and places her small hand once more on the stone, her fingers gripping the surface as if trying to hold onto something… or someone.
The seconds stretch, burdened with unbearable weight.
Then, finally, Georges breaks the silence. His voice is hoarse, weary, barely a whisper.
"Éléna..."
A single name. Murmured like a prayer, a confession, a too-late apology.
And beneath the endless blue sky, between the stone and the shattered hearts, Annabelle shatters the moment like fractured glass.
"Did you know I existed… before?" Her voice is low, fragile, as though she dreads the answer.
Georges, motionless, doesn't move. His eyes remain fixed on the stone, searching for an escape that will not come. He opens his mouth, but no words emerge. His throat tightens, the knot within him unbearable. His eyes search for Nicolas, but his brother remains a step behind, unmoving.
Annabelle waits, both impatient and uncertain, her piercing gaze locked on Georges. The seconds drag on before Nicolas, visibly uncomfortable, hurriedly places his hat back on his head, straightening up as he steps forward.
"The mayor's letter..." he begins, his voice gentle but firm, as though reciting something he's rehearsed for far too long.
"For the first time, we heard from Éléna… after so many years."
He pauses, his eyes flicking toward Georges, who seems to shrink even further under the weight of the words.
"Your mother… she had everything planned. She knew this moment would come before she did… you know what."
Georges lets out a sound, a muffled exhale. His eyes are filled with regret, a silent battle waging across his tense features. Nicolas continues, undeterred by the suffocating tension.
"She… she never wrote to us before. Only the formal letter. It's the one we received just a week ago."
He clears his throat, his gaze avoiding Annabelle's.
"I didn't know… I didn't know how to tell you, Annabelle. Neither did Georges."
Annabelle pulls her hand away from the grave, her eyes fixed on Nicolas. She steps closer to him, stopping just within arm's reach, her head tilted upward to meet his gaze, barely reaching his chest.
The wind stirs the leaves once more. Nicolas reaches into his coat pocket and withdraws an envelope, extending it toward her. Annabelle's eyes flick between her uncle and the letter, recognizing the handwriting instantly.
Georges, at last, steps forward, his voice breaking as he speaks.
"If… if only I'd been there sooner."
That's all he can manage to say, and yet, the weight of those words is enough to fill the silence around them.
Annabelle, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears, turns away, rage and sorrow twisting within her, tangled with a profound confusion.