The next day, the biting wind had turned into a relentless, freezing rain, washing the Parisian streets in shades of gray. The Thomingo metro entrance was a blur of umbrellas and hurried footsteps. Yet, the baker, Jacques, was there, his warm cart a beacon against the gloom. He arranged his pastries with practiced care, a soft whistle escaping his lips.
He paused, his eyes scanning the crowd. He was looking for her—the frail woman in the green cardigan. All morning, a strange sense of unease had settled over him, a feeling that her desperate gratitude yesterday meant more than just hunger.
By mid-afternoon, the rain began to ease, leaving behind a damp chill. As Jacques was wiping down the glass of his display, he saw a figure approaching. It wasn’t the old woman. It was a young man, tall and sharp-featured, dressed in an impeccably tailored, dark gray suit that seemed entirely out of place near a street cart.
The young man stopped directly in front of the cart, his gaze cold and calculating. He didn’t look at the pastries; he looked at Jacques.
“You gave a woman a bun here yesterday,” the man stated, his voice flat, demanding. It wasn’t a question.
Jacques frowned, taken aback by the man’s abrasive tone. “I give away a few buns now and then, Monsieur. Why do you ask?”
“An older woman. Green cardigan. Headscarf. She was carrying a battered brown leather purse,” the man continued, his eyes narrowing, studying Jacques intensely.
Jacques remembered the purse. She had clutched it so desperately, as if it contained the world. “Yes,” Jacques replied cautiously. “I remember her. She was hungry. What is this about?”
The young man didn’t answer immediately. He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a small, rectangular card. He slapped it onto the glass counter. It was a business card, stark white with embossed silver lettering: Arnaud Lemieux, Senior Investigator, The Ministry.
“Did she give you anything?” Arnaud asked, leaning in closer, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “Did she slip anything across the counter? A note? A key?”
“Nothing,” Jacques said, genuinely confused and increasingly alarmed. “She only took the bread. She thanked me and left. Who is she?”
Arnaud ignored the question, his eyes scanning the immediate area around the cart, as if searching for hidden compartments. “Are you absolutely certain? Think carefully, baker. It’s a matter of national security.”
Jacques laughed, a short, nervous sound. “National security? Over a hungry woman and a bun? You must be joking.”
“I assure you, I am not,” Arnaud said, his expression remaining stone-cold. He picked up his card and slipped it back into his pocket. “That woman is not who she appears to be. And that brown purse…” He stopped, as if catching himself before saying too much.
“What about the purse?” Jacques pressed, his curiosity now piquing over his unease.
Arnaud looked at Jacques for a long moment, a silent assessment. “Let’s just say, she doesn’t carry loose change in it.” He took a step back, melting into the passing crowd. “If you see her again, do not speak to her. Do not take anything from her. And you will contact me immediately.”
He thrust the card back at Jacques, who took it hesitantly. Before Jacques could ask another question, Arnaud turned and strode away, disappearing into the Thomingo metro station.
Jacques stood frozen, the warm scent of his pastries suddenly cloying. He looked down at the crisp white card in his flour-dusted hand, then up at the gray Parisian sky. The simple act of kindness from the day before had just pulled him into something dark and unseen.
What was in that purse?
He turned back to his cart, the cheerful whistle long gone. The old woman’s words from yesterday echoed in his mind, though he hadn’t heard them at the time.
Tomorrow, my life will change.
It seemed his had, too. And he had a terrible feeling the changes were only just beginning.
Read the full story in the comments. If you don’t see the new chapter, tap ‘All comments’.
