The safe house was silent but for the faint crackle of the radio, its low hum a reminder of the world beyond these walls. Élodie sat by the window, watching the moonlight filter through the tangle of vines that clung to the walls of the old stone cottage. Her heart still raced from their flight through the forest, but the adrenaline had faded, leaving only a hollow ache behind.
Luc had disappeared into the back of the house to speak with their comrades, leaving her alone with her thoughts, with the ghosts of what could have been. She clenched her fists, her nails biting into her palms, as the questions came again, relentless.
What had happened to Vincent? Was he still that man she once knew, or had the war twisted him into someone unrecognizable?
Her fingers ran absently over the map spread out before her on the table, tracing the lines and routes they had memorized for their missions. She could hear the distant voices of the others, murmuring in low tones as they discussed plans and strategies. But Élodie couldn't focus on that. Her mind refused to quiet. She stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the stone floor.
Her gaze fell upon the journal she had kept, the pages filled with notes and observations from their missions, the remnants of a life before the war had swallowed everything she once held dear. She picked it up, her fingers trembling as she opened to the last entry. The ink had faded, but the words were still there, sharp and clear.
"Vincent is my anchor. Even in the darkest of times, I know he will be there. But the war... it changes everything. It changes all of us."
Her heart lurched in her chest. She remembered writing those words with the hope that, somehow, the war would end, and things would return to the way they had been. Before the Resistance. Before betrayal. Before the world had shattered into pieces.
But those words felt like a distant echo now, lost to time. She wasn't the same person she had been then. The war had stolen that version of her, replaced it with someone hardened, someone who had seen too much bloodshed, too many faces turn cold with fear and hatred.
And Vincent... was he the same? Was he the man she had once believed in, or had he succumbed to the darkness of the world around them?
The door creaked open behind her, and Élodie turned to see Luc standing in the doorway, his expression unreadable. His eyes softened as he saw her, but there was something guarded in his gaze. He stepped inside, his boots heavy on the floor as he approached her, his steps slow, deliberate.
"We need to talk," Luc said again, his voice a low rasp.
Élodie nodded but didn't speak. She didn't know what to say. Her thoughts were a whirl of confusion, of loss, of a love that might have been but never truly had the chance to survive.
Luc sat down beside her, his eyes fixed on the map she had been tracing just moments before. "I know you're torn," he said, his voice steady, but there was a hint of frustration beneath the surface. "But you have to understand that the stakes are higher now. It's not just about us anymore. It's about the fight for freedom. And we can't afford any more risks."
"I know," Élodie replied, her voice distant. "But what if he's not the enemy? What if he's... still Vincent?"
Luc's jaw clenched, and for a moment, the room seemed to close in around them. He exhaled sharply, his gaze not leaving the map, the faint lines on it seeming to blur before Élodie's eyes.
"People change, Élodie. You know that better than anyone." His voice was soft now, quieter, but there was a weight to it that made her stomach twist. "War doesn't leave anyone untouched. Not even him."
"I don't want to believe it," she whispered. "I don't want to believe that he's just another pawn in their game."
"You're not hearing me," Luc said, his voice firm. "I don't want to believe it either. But the truth is that we can't afford to keep hoping for a miracle. If we're going to survive this, we have to face the reality of what's happening around us. And sometimes... the truth is too painful to ignore."
Tears pricked at the corners of Élodie's eyes, but she fought them back, swallowing the lump in her throat. Luc was right, in a way. The war had taken so much from her, so much from everyone. It had stolen their innocence, their trust, their hope. It had left them all with a brutal choice: to fight or to be consumed.
But her heart—a traitor to reason—still clung to the memory of Vincent, to the feeling that there was something worth saving in him. Something that the war had yet to destroy.
"Luc... what if he's the one who can help us?" Élodie asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "What if he knows something we don't?"
Luc looked at her then, really looked at her, and for the first time in what felt like forever, their eyes met with an understanding that cut through the fog of war. It wasn't the same as before, when everything had been simpler, when they had both fought with unshaken conviction. Now, everything was clouded by doubt, by loss, by betrayal.
"I don't know," Luc said quietly, his words heavy with meaning. "But I do know that we can't keep asking what if and risk everything for a man who might no longer be the one we knew. We have to keep moving forward."
The silence between them grew long and thick, the weight of his words sinking into Élodie's chest like a stone.
"I understand," she finally said, the words tasting bitter on her tongue. "I'll do what's necessary. For the cause. For all of us."
Luc gave a small nod, his gaze softening. He reached out and took her hand, his fingers warm against hers.
"We'll get through this," he said, his voice steady once more. "Together."
As he spoke, Élodie couldn't help but wonder if they truly could. If they could hold on to the pieces of themselves that the war hadn't stolen. Or if, like everything else, they would crumble beneath the weight of the world they had been forced to inherit.
But in that moment, with Luc beside her, she allowed herself to hope—for the briefest second. Maybe, just maybe, they could rebuild.