Story
Le Chemin du Retour
Not startedThe bus stopped at the town hall square. Marc Delacroix waited for the other passengers to get off. Then he stood up slowly, took his small travel bag, and walked down the steps.
The October air was cool. Marc stopped on the sidewalk and looked around him. The square hadn't changed. The town hall was still there, with its gray stone façade. The corner café still had its tables on the terrace. The bakery still displayed its old wooden sign.
"The village is the same," thought Marc. "It's me who has changed."
He adjusted his coat and began to walk. The notary had signed the papers that very morning. Everything was over. Colette no longer belonged to him on paper. Now, she belonged to the earth, to the village cemetery.
Marc walked down the main street. He passed in front of the bakery. The smell of warm bread came through the open door. He didn't stop. He passed the post office, then the small grocery store. People were walking in the street, but Marc wasn't looking at them. He kept his eyes on the path ahead.
Eight months. It had been eight months since he had walked down this street. Eight months since Colette's death. Eight months that he had been living with his daughter in Lyon, in an apartment that wasn't his.
"I shouldn't be here," he thought. "But I shouldn't be anywhere else either."
He continued walking, hands in his coat pockets. The afternoon sun cast long shadows on the cobblestones. The leaves on the trees were starting to turn. Autumn was here.
He arrived in front of the workshop. He stopped short.
The façade was the same, but the sign had changed. "Atelier Durand" — another name. Marc approached the window. Inside, a younger man was working on a piece of wood. The tools were different. The organization of the space had changed.
"Forty years," thought Marc. "I worked here for forty years."
His hand went toward the door. He pulled it back. It was no longer his workshop. He no longer had a place here. He stepped back, then turned around and continued walking.
Madame Fontaine's café was at the end of the street. Marc hesitated. He could continue to the cemetery. But his feet had already led him to the café door. He went in.
The room was quiet. Two customers were having coffee near the window. Madame Fontaine was behind the counter. When she saw Marc, her face lit up.
"Marc! It's been a long time!"
She came out from behind the counter and came toward him. She had the same smile, the same energy. Fifty-eight years old, but she seemed not to age.
"Hello, Madame Fontaine."
"Call me Hélène, you know. Would you like a coffee?"
Marc nodded. "Yes, thank you."
He sat at a table near the window. Madame Fontaine brought the coffee and sat across from him.
"So, how are things in Lyon? Your daughter and her children are well?"
Marc took his cup. "Yes, they're fine. The children are growing up."
"And you? Are you getting used to the city?"
The question hung in the air. Marc looked at the black coffee in his cup. "It's different," he said at last. "But it's fine."
Madame Fontaine didn't answer right away. She looked at him with her clear eyes. She had known Colette. She knew.
"You know," she said softly, "you can come back whenever you want. You're always welcome here."
Marc raised his eyes. "Thank you, Hélène."
It wasn't a polite response. It was a genuine thank you. Madame Fontaine placed her hand on his arm for a moment, then stood up and returned behind the counter.
Marc finished his coffee. The warmth of the drink and Madame Fontaine's words had warmed him a little. But deep inside, the same question remained unanswered: where was his place now?
He left the café and headed toward the cemetery, at the end of the village. The path rose gently. The trees were red and orange. The air smelled of dead leaves and damp earth.
The cemetery was small. Marc knew the way. He passed through the iron gate and walked to the back row. Colette rested there, under a gray granite stone.
"Colette Delacroix, born in 1958, died in 2025."
Marc knelt. He removed a few weeds at the foot of the stone. His fingers touched the cold granite.
"I came back today," he murmured. "It's strange without you."
The wind moved the leaves of the trees around the cemetery. Marc remained still. He had no more words. Just silence, and Colette's presence beneath the earth.
Eight months. It seemed to him like yesterday. It seemed to him like another life.
He picked a small wildflower near the cemetery wall. He placed it on the stone.
"I will come back," he said.
He stood up, rubbed his knees, and turned around. The path descended toward the village. The bus would leave in less than an hour.
On his way down, he passed in front of his house. Or rather, what had been his house. A yellow curtain adorned the kitchen window — a color Colette hadn't liked. An unfamiliar car was parked in front.
"Marc!"
A voice was calling him. Marc turned around. Pierre Marchand stood in front of his garden gate, on the other side of the street. Sixty-five years old, his face wrinkled by the sun and the work of the land.
"Hello, Pierre."
Pierre crossed the street. He wasn't smiling. He looked at Marc with his direct eyes.
"It's been a long time. You came back for the papers?"
Marc nodded. "Yes. It's over now."
They stood there for a moment. Pierre wasn't looking at the house. He was looking at Marc.
"And how are you, really?"
Marc hesitated. He could give the same answer he gave everyone. "I'm fine." But Pierre wasn't asking a polite question. He was asking the real question.
"It's hard," said Marc.
Pierre didn't answer right away. He gave a slow nod.
"You miss her," said Pierre. "That's normal."
Two simple sentences. But Marc felt something release inside him. Pierre wasn't giving him advice. He wasn't telling him everything would be fine. He was simply saying it was normal. That his pain was normal.
"You know," Pierre continued, "if you want to come back, there's room. My son has an apartment above the garage. It's not big, but it's clean."
Marc looked at his old friend. "Thank you, Pierre."
"You don't need to answer now. But the offer stands. You come back whenever you want."
Pierre squeezed his shoulder and returned to his garden. Marc remained on the sidewalk for a moment. Then he continued toward the bus stop.
The bus stop was near the town hall square. The sun was setting on the horizon. The sky was taking on orange and pink hues.
Marc sat on the bench. A woman was waiting with her child. An old man was reading his newspaper. No one paid attention to him. Marc looked at his watch. The bus was arriving in a few minutes.
His hand went to his coat pocket. He felt the small wildflower, a bit crumpled now. He had picked it for Colette, but he had kept it. It was there, against his heart.
The bus appeared at the end of the street. It braked gently in front of the stop. The doors opened. The woman and her child got on. The old man folded his newspaper and got on in turn.
Marc stood up. He took his bag. He looked one last time at the square. The town hall. The café where Hélène still served the same coffee. The street that led to the workshop, to the cemetery, to the house that was no longer his.
Then he got on the bus.
He found a seat by the window. The bus started again. Marc looked through the glass. The village scrolled slowly. The houses. The trees. The streets he knew by heart.
"I'll be able to come back," he thought. "Not today. But someday."
The bus left the village and took the road to Lyon. The countryside opened up on each side. The fields. The hills in the distance. The sky now purple.
Marc leaned his head against the glass. The little flower was still in his pocket. The village lights were disappearing behind him. He had no answer to all his questions. He didn't know where his place would be tomorrow. But he knew one thing now: the village was still there. Colette rested there. Pierre and Hélène were there. And he could come back.
The bus moved forward into the evening. The road continued.