🌧 «The Room with the Yellow Curtains» 🪟
It had been raining for several days in a row. The soft tapping of raindrops gently played against the windowpane of a small countryside house in northern France. Inside, the kitchen smelled faintly of chamomile tea and old books. The walls, painted in faded cream tones, had clearly seen better days—but they still stood, much like the woman who now stood silently by the window, watching the yellow curtains ripple with the wind.
Her name was Claire Duval. She had just turned 81 a week ago. But her birthday had passed quietly—just a single candle on a butter cake she had baked herself. No visitors. No phone calls.
It hadn’t always been this way. Twenty years ago, the house was filled with voices. Her granddaughter, Élise, had lived with her. Élise had moved in after a tragic car accident took her parents. Claire had raised her like a daughter. She remembered the laughter, the debates about curfews, and the honest conversations by the fire in the evenings.
Then Élise left. There was no drama. No slammed doors or angry words. Just a letter left on the kitchen table one rainy morning. Claire still remembered every word:
“Grandma,
I’m leaving to find out who I am.
Please don’t look for me.
I love you.
Élise.”
She had heard nothing since. Claire tried everything—writing letters, visiting nearby cities, asking for help with online searches. Nothing. Élise had vanished like a leaf blown away by the wind.
Years passed. Claire’s heart grew quieter, but it never stopped waiting. And she never stopped hoping. Maybe one day…
That day came, also wrapped in rain. As Claire was adjusting the curtains, she noticed an unfamiliar black car parked across the road. A tall man stepped out, wearing a long coat. Something about the way he walked seemed official. He rang the bell.
Claire opened the door—hesitant, heart trembling.
“Madame Duval?” he asked gently.
“Yes?”
“I’m with the Red Cross Missing Persons Program. May I come in?”
Her chest tightened. She nodded and stepped aside. Inside, the man opened a folder.
“We recently matched fingerprints from a woman in a rehabilitation center in southern Italy. She registered under the name Élise Rousseau. The surname doesn’t match your granddaughter’s, but the fingerprints do.”
Claire felt the floor sway under her feet.
“She’s… alive?”
“Yes. And she’s asking for you.”
Three days later, Claire walked nervously through a narrow hallway in a recovery facility on the southern Italian coast. Her hands trembled. The building smelled of antiseptic and salt from the nearby sea.
At the end of the hallway, by a sunlit window, sat a woman in her early thirties. Her face was thin. Her eyes carried time. But those eyes—Claire would have recognized them anywhere.
“Élise,” she whispered.
The woman turned. Their eyes locked. Then the tears came.
“Grandma?”
Claire rushed forward without thinking. They embraced tightly, wordlessly, for a long time. A nurse in the doorway quietly closed the door behind them.
It took hours to piece together the full story. Élise explained how she had joined an idealistic group of activists, moving across Europe. At first, they helped refugees and protested peacefully. But eventually, things turned darker. A police raid. Prison. Months without a name. She had no documents, no place to go, and eventually, no idea how to ask for help.
“I thought… maybe you’d given up on me,” she said softly.
Claire held her hand.
“I never stopped loving you. Every night, I left the porch light on. In case you came back.”
“I don’t deserve forgiveness.”
“You don’t have to earn love. You’re mine. That’s enough.”
When they returned to France, the yellow curtains still danced gently in the wind. But the house no longer felt empty. The silence had changed. It no longer ached. It healed.
Each morning, as the sun warmed the distant fields, Claire would look across the table at Élise and whisper:
“You’re safe now. You’re home.”
