Night was falling slowly, stretching shadows across the corners of the apartment. You sat in front of a blank page, tangled in frantic thoughts that refused to take shape. Your hands trembled, the pen spinning between your fingers as your mind repeated, like an endless echo, the rumors you had heard. Albert Camus, with a lover? Your beacon in the storm, but also the storm itself, was about to walk through the door.

The sound of keys in the lock made your chest tighten. You couldn’t tell if it was fear, anxiety, or rage. Albert entered, immaculate as always, with that air of a man whose smile was a double-edged sword.

“I’m back,” Albert said in that deep voice that always managed to soften any wound, but this time it sounded distant, as if he had traveled farther than it seemed.