: Methodical

Rain pattered against the living room windows, leaving streaks of water on the windowpanes.

The fire crackled in the fireplace, but the chill in the room seemed to come from somewhere deeper, an invisible, slowly seeping cold that had nothing to do with the weather.

Charlotte sat at the piano, her fingers hovering over the keys, but not pressing any. The smooth, black lacquer of the Pleyel piano reflected her blurry image: a young woman burdened with worries, her chestnut curls tied back, and faint shadows beneath her emerald eyes.

She hadn't heard from Lorraine for three days.

Not entirely—yesterday afternoon, she called the General Staff, and the secretary said that Lieutenant Loran was "out on research" and his return date was uncertain.

The explanation itself is not problematic; wartime officers often travel, but Charlotte remembers Lorraine saying that his main job as a campaign analyst was "sitting in the office looking at reports and maps."

What are you going to do for research? Where are you going? Who are you going with?

She got up and walked to the window. Outside, Paris was shrouded in the continuous rain of March. The streets were wet, and pedestrians hurried by with black umbrellas, like a group of moving mushrooms. The golden dome of Les Invalides paled in comparison to the gray sky.

Mother Yvonne came out of the kitchen, carrying a plate of freshly baked almond cookies: "Darling, have something to eat. You didn't eat much at lunch."

Charlotte took the plate and forced a smile. "Thank you, Mom."

"Still worried about Mark?" Yvonne sat down beside her and took her hand. "Officers are very busy during wartime. Your father often went months without a word when he was in the army."

“That’s different,” Charlotte said softly. “Back then, there was a real war. Now everyone’s saying ‘there’s no fighting on the Western Front.’”

"Precisely because there's no war, we have to be even busier preparing," Yvonne sighed. "Your father has also been coming home very late lately. The Ministry of Education is developing 'emergency school evacuation plans,' which everyone knows will be useless, but it has to be done. That's the bureaucracy."

Charlotte nodded, but was not convinced.

She recalled what Professor Michel had said two weeks earlier in the University of Eight café—about veterans, about underground workshops, about "people taking risks for their beliefs."

She took a bite of the cookie, the sweet almond flavor melting in her mouth, but her heart grew increasingly bitter.

"Mom," she suddenly asked, "what would you do if you knew someone was doing something very important but also very dangerous?"

Yvonne looked at her daughter sharply: "You mean Mark?"

Charlotte did not deny it.

"So first," the mother's voice turned serious, "you need to make sure you really know, and not just guess. Second, you need to think carefully about whether your intervention will help him, or distract him or even put him in greater danger."

"But what if he needs help?"

"Then he should speak up."

Yvonne gently stroked her daughter's hair. "Charlotte, love doesn't mean you have to take on everything for him. Sometimes, the best support is trust and being ready to help him when he needs it."

Charlotte fell silent. Her mother's words made sense, but the unease in her chest didn't disappear.

The wall clock struck four. Yvonne stood up. "I have to go to the market while the rain is a little lighter. Your father has a business dinner tonight, so let's just have a simple meal."

After her mother left, the apartment fell silent. Only the sound of rain, the ticking of the clock, and the soft crackling of burning wood in the fireplace could be heard.

Charlotte returned to the piano, and this time she pressed the keys.

The notes flowed out, Debussy's "Clair de Lune," its melody soft and hazy, like Paris in the rain and mist.

She studied piano for six years when she was a child, but then stopped because she was busy with her studies. When Lorraine first came to visit her home, she played this piece for him, and he said it was "like a night on the Seine".

The sound of the piano echoed in the empty living room. Charlotte closed her eyes and moved her fingers across the keys from memory.

Music allowed her to temporarily forget her worries and immerse herself in the world created by the melody—a peaceful, moonlit world before the war.

But reality always comes back.

As the music ended, the last note faded into the air. Charlotte opened her eyes, looked at the reflection of her fingers on the piano keys, and made a decision.

4:30 PM, Olivier Lorrain's apartment in the 10th arrondissement of Paris.

When the knock came at the door, Olivier was mending an old sweater. His one arm made the simple action clumsy and slow, but he insisted on doing it himself—a habit he had picked up from the battlefield, wanting to rely on as little as possible.

He put down his needlework, walked to the door, and looked through the peephole. He paused for a moment when he saw Charlotte, then opened the door.

"Miss Durand," he said, sounding somewhat surprised, "please come in. It's cold outside."

Charlotte entered the small apartment and took off her rain-soaked scarf and coat. The room was tidy, but had a simple feel typical of an elderly person living alone; the furniture was old, the wall clock ticked loudly, and there was a faint smell of tobacco and old books in the air.

"I'm sorry I didn't let you know beforehand," she said. "I just wanted to come and see you."

Olivier gestured for her to sit down at the table, then went to the kitchen to boil water for tea.

His movements were slow, but methodical.

Charlotte noticed a new photograph next to the Lebel rifle on the wall. It showed a young Olivier in military uniform, still with his left arm intact, standing next to several equally young soldiers, all smiling at the camera.

The photo has yellowed and the edges are curled.

"This was taken in the spring of 1916, before the Battle of the Somme." Olivier came out carrying a teapot, and following her gaze, he said, "The tall man on the left is Jean-Louis, who died of poison gas in 1917. The short man in the middle is Rémy, who opened a tavern after the war. The one on the far right is me."

He poured two cups of tea, pushing one towards Charlotte: "Mark came to see me recently and found this photo. He said he wanted to remember what I looked like in my entirety."

Charlotte took the teacup, the warmth seeping through the porcelain into her palm, and asked cautiously, "How has he been lately?"

Olivier sat down, his one arm resting on the table, the tattered sleeve neatly folded up. He looked at Charlotte, his eyes sharp and deep, having witnessed the Battle of Verdun.

"What you really want to know isn't him, is it?" the old man said calmly. "You want to know what he's been doing and why he hasn't contacted you in so long."

Charlotte's face flushed slightly, but she did not deny it.

Olivier was silent for a moment, then took a sip of tea. The tea was strong and bitter.

"I met Mark's mother in 1916," he suddenly said, his voice becoming distant. "Her name was Mary, and she was a nurse in a field hospital. I was wounded and sent to the rear, and she took care of me for three months. Every time she changed my dressings, she would hum a song, not a complete tune, but just a few minor notes, saying it was to distract me, but I knew she was scared too."

He paused. "After the war, we got married. She said she liked me because I 'looked like someone who could live a long time.' I said it was because I knew how to survive on the battlefield, not through bravery, but through caution, knowing when to charge, when to hide, and when to wait."

Charlotte listened quietly. Raindrops tapped against the window.

“Mark has his mother’s tenacity, and I have my stubbornness—knowing the danger but still doing it anyway.” Olivier looked out at the gray sky. “He’s doing something now, something he believes he must do. I can’t tell you what it is, but I can tell you it’s important, important enough for him to take the risk, and important enough that he can’t tell you.”

"Because it's dangerous?"

"Because the fewer people who know, the safer everyone is." Olivier turned back, looking directly at Charlotte, "including you."

The room fell silent. Only the ticking of the clock and the sound of rain outside the window could be heard.

Charlotte held the teacup, feeling the warmth of the tea slowly seep into her palm.

She remembered the expression on Lorraine's face when he said "they will come from the impossible" in the coffee shop, the indelible grease on his hands, the growing weariness in his eyes, and that strange, burning light.

"I don't need to know the details," she finally spoke, her voice soft but firm. "But I need to know what I can do."

Olivier looked at her for a long time, then slowly nodded.

"All you can do is what Mary did back then," he said. "Keep life running smoothly from the rear. Provide a place for him to come back to when he needs it. And..."

The old man paused for a moment, seemingly considering his words.

"Also, believe in him not because of blind faith, but because you understand what kind of person he is."

Charlotte nodded. She knew this was the only answer she could get—not an explanation, but a direction.

"When will he come back?" she asked.

"Soon," Olivier said. "Things are approaching a critical point. After that, whatever the outcome, he'll be back. He might need you then, not for technical help, but right here."

He pointed to his chest with his missing arm.

Charlotte finished her tea and stood up. "Thank you, Mr. Lorraine."

"Just call me Olivier." The old man also stood up. "I'm glad Mark chose you. He needs more than just a wife; he needs someone who understands why he has to leave at certain times."

Charlotte put on her coat and scarf. As she reached the door, she turned back and said, "If there's anything I can do to help, even something small, please let me know."

Olivier nodded: "I will."

The door closed. Olivier stood by the window, watching Charlotte open her umbrella and walk into the cold March rain. Her back was straight, her steps firm, like those young women who learned to be strong during wartime.

He remembered Mary, and the day of the armistice in 1918, when she stood waiting for him at the hospital entrance, holding a small bouquet of wildflowers, her face streaked with tears yet smiling. She had said, "Now we can live a normal life."

But what is a normal life? The war is over, but shrapnel remains in the body, nightmares still visit in the dead of night, and the mutilated arm is a constant reminder of everything lost.

Now, twenty-two years later, war is coming again. This time, it's his son's turn to face steel and fire.

Olivier walked to the wall and gently brushed the old photograph with his one arm. The young soldiers in the photo were smiling, unaware that a few months later, half of them would be corpses, and the other half would live on with permanent wounds.

"Let her prepare," he said softly to the photograph, "because this time, there may be no 'post-war'."

The nearly dried-up old man was plunged into immense sorrow.

7 p.m., Charlotte's room.

Charlotte sat at her desk, the lamplight casting a warm glow on the wooden surface. A new notebook lay open before her, the first page bearing the words in clear handwriting:

"Personal Preparedness Checklist in Case of War"

She began to write, quickly and clearly:

Documents and files: Passport, birth certificate, marriage certificate (if applicable), proof of assets, all compiled, copied, and stored in different places.

Cash and valuables: Divide savings into small portions and hide them in multiple locations. Sell or properly conceal jewelry.

Emergency supplies: canned food, bottled water, medicine, bandages, matches, candles, flashlights, stock up on at least two weeks' worth.

Contact plan: Agree on alternative contact methods and meeting points with parents, Lorraine, and emergency contact person.

Important information: Record key phone numbers, addresses, and Lorraine military contact persons.

She stopped writing and looked at the list. It was just a paltry preparation that an ordinary citizen could make on the brink of war.

But that's her way. She can't build tanks, she can't influence the generals' decisions, and she can't change the course of history.

But she can be prepared to evacuate with Lorraine as soon as a crisis comes and find a safer place to live.

She recalled Olivier's words: "In the rear, keep life running smoothly."

This is her rear. Her battlefield.

Charlotte continued writing, adding more details: which canned goods were easiest to preserve, which medicines might be in short supply during wartime, which areas of Paris were relatively safe, and what routes to take if evacuation was necessary.

Outside the window, the night was deepening.

The rain stopped, and a gap opened in the clouds, revealing a pale crescent moon. Moonlight spilled onto the wet rooftops, draping Paris in a silver veil.

Unbeknownst to the city, deep beneath a cave, six old men and a steel construct were making final preparations for a "performance" two days later. Nor was it aware that on the other side of the eastern border, thousands of tanks and soldiers had already assembled, awaiting only one order.

Paris is still asleep, dreaming of peace.

Six veterans want to change the officers' heavy reliance on the Maginot Line.

Meanwhile, the German armored forces had completed their integration and were eager to raze this place to the ground.

March 26, 1940, 10:17 PM, D371 highway in the northern suburbs of Paris.

The diesel engine of the modified truck roared in the night, like the panting of a wounded beast.

Pierre gripped the steering wheel tightly, his remaining left leg precisely controlling the accelerator and brake. His trouser leg, missing his right leg, hung limply beside the seat. In the rearview mirror, three pairs of police lights flashed in the rainy night, relentlessly pursuing them and getting closer and closer.

Inside the carriage, the steel structure covered with heavy canvas made a clanging friction sound with every bump.

LeBron crouched on the partition between the driver's cab and the rear compartment, his single eye fixed on the rear window.

"500 meters away, accelerate." His voice was calm, as if he were stating the weather.

Pierre stepped on the gas, and the truck lurched forward, its rear wheels briefly slipping on the wet asphalt before gripping the road.