The library at Bayou La Batre was built of black stone, moss, and dust that seemed to never want to go away. It was old, yes, but not just in age: it was heavy. The columns that held it up were crooked, as if they had aged sideways. The lamps hung like floating candlesticks. It was perfect for finding something forgotten. Or for something to find you.

Marcel and Alessandra split up to search. She went up to the upper floors, where the genealogy books were stored behind rusty locks. He stayed downstairs, exploring less specific sections: social history, press archives, partial lists. He didn't expect to find anything. He didn't even know what he was looking for. He just browsed.

"My family has to be somewhere..." -Marcel thought.

But the more they looked, the more it seemed like it didn't exist. That name, those people, nothing matched. It was as if they'd been ripped from history. And then it happened. A thud, as if something had tripped.

To his left, a book fell. No one touched it, and it didn't even come close. It just fell, simple as.

Marcel stared at it for a few seconds. It had no title. Just an aged leather cover with a cross-shaped crack. He opened it. Inside, a handwritten inscription:

"Family Tragedies from 1890 to 1920."

The ink looked fresh, but it smelled damp. He started reading, not knowing why. Maybe a part of him did. The first case: a family in Lyon. Then, a series of incidents in Paris, Reims, the southern coast…

And then the text became more raw. A chronicle, not an analysis. Just like some fragment from a newspaper:

"On the night of May 3, 1913, during a gala party at the D'Arceneaux family mansion, a fire consumed the property. The fire started in the east wing and spread rapidly. There were no survivors inside. Outside guests were able to escape, but the entire family perished."

Marcel readed that and he connected it to the night his family dissapeared. To the night he saw his sister Cassandra for the last time. The night where she said that if he missed her, he must see the brightest star in the sky.

He continued to read that report. Around the article, it said that the D'Arcenaux family's mansion incident has around 5,000 victims. Marcel felt that. He felt bad for those five thousand victims. But wait a second. It didn't end there. It continued.

Before turning to the next page, Marcel felt his stomach plummet. He flipped through the pages with trembling hands until he found it: the list of victims. His eyes were freezing. Every victim that passed, the more his anxiety grew and grew. He was in the verge of an autistic meltdown.

Until, he saw them.

"Pierre Lacroix, 32 yrs old."

"Louise Lacroix, 29 yrs old."

"Marie Lacroix, 33 yrs old."

And... the last nail to the coffin... a name that seemed to shine with cruelty:

"Cassandra Lacroix, 16 yrs old."

The world went silent. Not the normal silence. But one that sounds like pressure in your ears. As if everything were compressing. He stepped back. The chair creaked. Then it fell. And he, with it. Marcel stood up abruptly. His hands were on the sides of his head. The book lay open on the floor, like a voiceless cry.

"No no no no no no…" -Marcel said, repeating it.

He began to pace in circles. His eyes fluttered, his breathing labored.

"It's not real... ce n’est pas réel. This isn't real. This isn't real. This is another world... un autre monde. She's alive... Ils sont vivants… je le sais." -Marcel said, in the verge of crying.

His words tumbled over each other. His body contorted. His fingers tensed like dry twigs. His thoughts were like needles.

"She's alive! I saw her! I spoke to her! It can't be!" -Marcel shouted.

A figure appeared in the distance. Alessandra ran down the stairs when she heard it.

"Hey! What happened?! Are you okay?! What are you saying?!" -Alessandra said.

He wasn't listening to her. He was hugging himself. The ground seemed to tilt. She held him. She looked into his eyes.

"Breathe, breathe with me. Like this… one, two, three… slowly…" -Alessandra said to calm him down.

He was trembling. Until he managed to utter:

"I saw their names. They're here... all of them. My dad. My uncles. My OWN sister." -Marcel said.

"Where?" -Alessandra asked, incredulous.

He pointed to the book. She bent down. She read it. And then she froze. She couldn't say anything. She just turned slowly toward him. He had tears in his eyes. They weren't new. They'd been there for years. And then, as if a floodgate had broken, he said it all.

"My mother lied to me. She told me they'd been gone for a while. But they were dead. All of them. For over fifteen years." -Marcel said.

"Your mother lied to yo-" -Alessandra said before being interrumpted.

"SHE LEFT ME! AND I BELIEVED ON HER! WHEN I ASKED ABOUT MY SISTER, SHE TOLD ME IT WAS JUST AN IMAGINATION! CASSANDRA WAS COMPLETELY REAL!! SHE WAS REAL!!" -Marcel shouted.

Alessandra hugged him without saying anything. He was shaken by tears.

"She was my everything. The only person who understood me. The one who calmed me down when I had meltdowns. The one who taught me to count the stars so I wouldn't think about Mom. The one who said I didn't speak weird, but that I spoke another language." -Marcel said, crying.

A lump formed in his throat.

"Why?" -Marcel said, her voice breaking. "Why would my mother lie to me? Why would she let me live with that lie? Why…?"

Alessandra had no answers. Only silence. And the certainty that something, at that moment...

...had broken.