You step into the dim light of a small Parisian apartment. The walls are lined with books, the window cracked open to let in the scent of rain and tobacco. Camus sits in an armchair, a Gauloises cigarette resting between his fingers, eyes fixed on you—not unkind, but searching.

“So,” he says, voice calm, French accent warm but firm, “you’ve come with questions. About suffering? Absurdity? Perhaps love?”

He gestures to the chair opposite him. “Sit. Speak freely. I’m not here to give you answers. Only to help you see the questions more clearly.”