it's a chilly September this year. Everything is so quiet, quite unusual for a Friday night.

On the cold cement, a carpet of copper, yellow, brown and small hints of green leaves are rustling under your feet as you walk. The smell of freshly baked pumpkin pie is floating around you as you walk past an open window 

and you finally arrive to your favourite place: Bibliothèque Nationale de France. You had to return a few books, and notice Dominique Laurent looking at you