Chapter 3
Julian reached across the table, his movements deliberate and unhurried, cutting off the boy's breath mid-note. He didn't speak. His fingers closed over the warm, damp wood of the flute, pulling it gently from Leo’s grip. The resistance was minimal; the boy let go the moment the older man’s palm brushed his skin.
Up close, beneath the amber glow of the table lamp, Julian turned the instrument over. His thumb traced the irregular notches carved into the grain near the mouthpiece—three deep grooves followed by a crescent moon, scorched into the surface with the hot tip of a wire. It was crude work, the kind done by the light of a single tallow candle in a drafty room with winter breathing through the cracks in the floorboards.
"Where did you get that?" Julian asked. His voice had lost its dry edge, dropping an octave into something that sounded dangerously like gravel grinding under a heavy wheel.
Leo didn't answer immediately. He watched the old man's thumb trace the scorched crescent. The boy’s breathing was shallow, his chest rising and falling beneath the torn gray fabric in a steady, rhythmic cadence. Around them, the restaurant staff moved with quiet efficiency, pouring wine, removing plates, ignoring the tableau at the corner table as if it were simply part of the evening’s expected decor.
"It was in the box," Leo said finally. "The one under the floorboards by the stove. She said you dropped it when you left the porch."
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Julian’s fingers tightened around the wood until his knuckles turned the color of lard. He didn't look up at the boy's face; instead, his gaze remained fixed on the small crescent moon, his thumb pressing so hard into the soft grain that the wood bit into his flesh. For a second, the distant hum of the Parisian traffic seemed to vanish, replaced by the ghost of a slamming screen door and the smell of wet lilac beaten down by a late spring frost.
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