Chapter 8 - THE HOUSE WITH THE YELLOW ROOM
Returning to Julien’s house was harder than finding him.
Élise stood in the entrance hall clutching Sophie’s hand.
Julien stayed several feet away.
Nothing in the house had changed in three years.
That had once felt necessary.
Now it looked sick.
Claire’s scarf still hung near the stairs.
Élise’s tiny red boots remained beneath the bench.
Her yellow bedroom upstairs remained exactly as it had been on the morning she disappeared.
Sophie looked around.
“You kept everything.”
Julien nodded.
“I thought if I moved something…”
He did not finish.
Élise slowly climbed the stairs.
Julien followed.
At the yellow bedroom door, she stopped.
Her hand touched the frame.
“Mine?”
“Yes.”
She entered.
The white rocking horse stood by the window.
Élise walked toward it.
Touched its wooden mane.
Then suddenly covered her mouth.
“Papa.”
Julien knelt.
“What?”
She began crying.
He reached for her.
This time she came immediately.
“I remember Mommy.”
Julien’s own tears came.
“What do you remember?”
“She sang.”
Claire had sung badly.
Constantly.
While cooking.
While driving.
While brushing Élise’s hair.
“Yes.”
“She had yellow hair?”
“Blonde.”
“She was sick.”
Julien closed his eyes.
“Yes.”
Élise pressed her face into his chest.
“Did she go heaven?”
“Yes.”
“Did she know I love her?”
His heart nearly stopped.
“Yes.”
He held her tighter.
“She knew more than anything.”
Sophie stood in the doorway crying silently.
That afternoon, Julien changed the house.
Not everything.
But enough.
Curtains opened.
Old food disappeared.
Workers came to repair rooms Julien had ignored.
He moved Claire’s scarf from the entrance hall to a memory box.
Not because she mattered less.
Because grief no longer needed to occupy every surface.
The legal situation around Sophie resolved over the next several weeks.
Prosecutors considered charges for custodial interference and use of false documents.
Renard testified.
Vautrin testified.
Julien testified.
So did the evidence showing Sophie had attempted to report Élise’s kidnapping and later saved her from Barrot.
In the end, she received probation for the false identity documents.
No prison.
More important, family court recognized the psychological bond between Sophie and Élise.
Julien did something everyone advised him not to.
He invited Sophie to remain involved.
His attorney called it complicated.
His therapist called it unusually mature.
Élise called it obvious.
“Sophie lives here?”
“Not exactly,” Julien said.
“Why?”
Sophie laughed.
“Because your papa bought me an apartment five minutes away.”
Élise frowned at Julien.
“Why not here?”
Julien nearly choked.
Sophie turned red.
The child continued.
“There’s lots rooms.”
Julien smiled.
“Maybe we start with five minutes away.”
“Adults complicated.”
“Yes.”
Very.
Julien returned to Morel Atelier for the first time in three years.
Employees lined the lobby.
Some applauded.
He hated it.
Then an elderly receptionist named Madame Fournier hugged him so hard his ribs hurt.
“You look terrible,” she said.
“Thank you.”
“You were too thin before.”
“Still thank you.”
He entered his old office.
Gabriel’s furniture had replaced his.
Julien removed all of it.
Then found the first project he wanted to design.
Not a luxury tower.
Not a hotel.
A family center beside the Rhône for parents of missing children and children recovering from trauma.
Counseling rooms.
Temporary housing.
Legal support.
Childcare.
And a bakery on the ground floor.
When Sophie saw the plans, she laughed.
“A bakery?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Julien looked at Élise.
She was drawing at the table.
“Because apparently cake solves important problems.”
Élise looked up.
“It does.”
The criminal cases moved forward.
Gabriel pled guilty to conspiracy, kidnapping and fraud.
Henri was arrested at Geneva Airport trying to travel under another name.
Vautrin accepted a cooperation agreement.
Barrot faced the most serious charges.
For the first time, Julien no longer checked every update obsessively.
Justice mattered.
But Élise mattered more.
One night, he found her sitting on the kitchen counter wearing pajamas.
“What are you doing?”
“Waiting.”
“For?”
“You.”
Julien stopped.
Three years ago, no one waited for him.
Now someone did.
He walked over.
“What do you need?”
“Cake.”
“It’s eleven.”
“So?”
“Sophie.”
“She said ask you.”
Julien narrowed his eyes.
Sophie had become very skilled at shifting responsibility.
“No cake.”
Élise considered this.
“Half cake?”
“No.”
“Tiny cake?”
“No.”
She sighed dramatically.
“You’re strict.”
“I’m a father.”
She smiled.
“Yes.”
That single word still hit him.
He picked her up.
“Bed.”
As he carried her upstairs, she rested her head on his shoulder.
“Papa?”
“Yes?”
“Why didn’t you find me?”
The question he feared most had finally arrived.
He stopped on the stairs.
Because there was no answer that did not hurt.
“I tried.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No.”
She was quiet.
Julien continued.
“I looked everywhere I knew to look. I asked people I thought I could trust.”
“Were you sad?”
“Very.”
“I was sad too.”
“I know.”
“You thought I gone?”
“Yes.”
Élise touched his face.
“But I came back.”
He swallowed.
“Yes.”
She smiled.
“Then okay.”
Children could forgive things adults spent lifetimes punishing themselves for.
Julien kissed her forehead.
At her bedroom door, he stopped.
The yellow walls glowed softly beneath the night-light.
The rocking horse remained by the window.
But there were new things too.
New clothes.
New drawings.
A photograph of Sophie.
A photograph of Julien.
One old photograph of Claire.
Past and present together.
Élise climbed into bed.
“Papa?”
“Yes?”
“Tomorrow bakery?”
He smiled.
“Yes.”
“Chocolate?”
“Yes.”
“Blue frosting?”
“Obviously.”
She closed her eyes.
Then opened one again.
“Wear nice shoes.”
Julien frowned.
“Why?”
She grinned.
May you like
“In case we trade.”
And for the first time in three years, Julien Morel laughed inside his daughter’s bedroom.
