Prologue

The cursor had been blinking in the middle of the screen for almost thirty seconds.

The client wanted “something more alive.”

Which, in the strange language of people who commissioned corporate illustrations online, could mean absolutely anything.

More alive how??

More color?

More contrast?

More smiles on the vegetables?

Yes...

Vegetables.

I’d spent the past two days working on a series of illustrations for an organic grocery delivery app.

Smiling carrots. Happy tomatoes. An eggplant that, according to the brief, was supposed to “convey a sense of modern trust.”

I stared at the screen.

The eggplant already looked like it paid taxes.

I let out a quiet sigh and picked up my stylus again.

The silence in the studio breathed slowly around me. The silence of lived-in apartments. The soft hum of the fridge. Cars muffled five floors below. Pipes knocking inside the walls every now and then, like an old building talking in its sleep.

And Eugène, obviously.

He crossed the living room with the serenity of a landlord inspecting an investment property.

Tail held high like a question mark.

Calm expression.

Entirely unaware of the bills and building fees he contributed absolutely nothing toward.

He jumped onto the desk without permission, then settled directly in front of my screen.

Perfect.

“Are you doing this on purpose?”

Eugène blinked slowly.

That cat had the unbearable confidence of creatures who had never once doubted they were loved.

I gently pushed his head aside to regain the bare minimum of visibility over my document.

Mistake.

He immediately stretched out across my drawing tablet.

Fine.

I had officially been evicted from my own workspace by eighteen and a half pounds of gray fur.

I checked the time in the corner of the screen.

9:47 p.m.

Freelancing had this strange advantage: no one stopped me from working at night.

Freelancing also had this other strange advantage: no one stopped me from working at night.

Important distinction.

I saved the file before rolling my chair back. The rabbit immediately lifted his head from the little space I’d set up for him beside the bookcase.

Unlike Eugène, he always looked as though he was apologizing for existing.

A small, cautious twitch of the ears.

An uncertain look.

“It’s okay.”

He kept staring at me.

“Yes, you’re allowed to live here too.”

The rabbit seemed to consider this information carefully.

Then went back to eating his hay.

The studio wasn’t big, but I knew every inch of it by heart. The couch near the window. The small open kitchen. The plants surviving against all odds. The stacks of sketchbooks. The guitar cables in one corner. The mugs abandoned on the coffee table.

Over time, everything had found its place perfectly.

Or rather, I had shrunk the world down to a size I knew how to handle.

That was the more honest way of putting it.

I ran a hand through my hair before opening the client’s email again.

“We would like a more organic, warm, and engaging visual identity.”

I looked at the eggplant.

It looked like a therapist now.

Progress.

A dull thud came through the wall on my right.

Quick footsteps.

Then a woman’s voice.

Far too energetic for almost ten at night.

I couldn’t make out the words. Only the rhythm. Fast. Lively. A way of speaking that made it sound as though the sentences were trying to get out faster than the thoughts behind them.

I knew that voice.

Not the person. Just the voice.

The apartment next door had been occupied for several months now. A family, probably. Or at least several people. I’d started recognizing certain sounds.

The front door slamming too hard.

Late returns.

Muffled conversations in the hallway.

Music, sometimes.

The quick footsteps.

Especially the quick footsteps.

Then the deep voice joined in.

Slower.

More measured.

Definitely the father.

Even through the wall, he spoke with the dramatic authority of a man convinced that every family discussion could turn into a parliamentary debate.

I still couldn’t make out the words.

Just the energy.

Something about forgotten keys.

Or a bag.

Or practice.

Then the woman’s voice started up again immediately.

Fast. Defensive. Lively. Very lively.

Eugène vaguely lifted one ear before deciding the matter fell outside his jurisdiction.

I listened despite myself.

Not out of unhealthy curiosity.

Well...

Not only.

It had simply become a habit.

I’d been living alone for almost two years. After a while, you learned the presence of the people around you without ever really meeting them. Some neighbors existed only as sounds.

The couple downstairs who always argued on Sunday mornings.

The neighbor on the fourth floor who sneezed like he was trying to expel his soul.

And the apartment next door.

I lowered my headphones around my neck without putting on any music.

Complete silence sometimes made me more uncomfortable than the ordinary sound of other people.

A fairly irritating contradiction when you spent your life pretending you liked peace and quiet.

I worked for another ten minutes before abandoning the eggplant to its tragic fate.

My eyes were starting to ache.

I saved everything.

Three times.

Financial anxiety could turn any freelancer into a paranoid archivist.

I stood up to stretch my back while Eugène finally climbed down from the desk with the insulting slowness of a king leaving a reception.

The rabbit, meanwhile, quietly hopped over to me.

I crouched down and stroked the top of his head.

Little nose twitching quickly.

Warm fur.

I wasn’t sure exactly when my life had become: living alone in a studio apartment with a tyrannical cat and an anxious rabbit while drawing emotionally approachable vegetables.

Honestly, though, things could be worse.

I refilled their water before opening the balcony door slightly.

The evening air immediately entered the studio, carrying the cold smell of the city.

Sirens in the distance.

Cars.

Normal life.

Eugène appeared behind my legs at once.

Obviously.

“No.”

He looked at me.

“You’re not going outside.”

He continued looking at me.

The problem with cats was that they treated rules like philosophical suggestions.

I closed the balcony door before he could attempt physical negotiations.

Then I picked up my guitar.

The wood felt slightly cold beneath my fingers.

I sat on the couch without turning on the main light. Just the lamp beside the bookcase. A small, soft glow.

I rarely played for long.

A few chords.

I think...

The guitar had nothing to do with the rest of it.

Drawing had become work. Even when I still loved it, there were clients behind it. Deadlines. Files called:

“V2_final_definitive_5.”

The guitar didn’t ask anything from me.

I just played whenever my brain got too loud.

A sequence of chords returned beneath my fingers almost automatically. A melody I’d started several weeks earlier.

Still unfinished.

Something was missing in the middle.

A transition.

Or a line.

Or...

Talent.

I played the passage a second time.

Then a third.

The same gap.

Like a missing step.

On the other side of the wall, the neighbors carried on with their lives.

Quick footsteps crossed the apartment.

A drawer opened too hard.

The father’s deep voice.

Then the daughter’s.

Closer this time.

I stopped for a few seconds without realizing it.

It was strange how certain people could occupy a space without even being physically present.

I knew nothing about her.

Not even her name.

But I knew she spoke quickly when she was running late.

That her footsteps were heavier after certain nights out.

That she rarely laughed quietly.

That she sometimes came home very late, only to leave again early the next morning.

And that she seemed incapable of closing a door normally.

The glass door vibrated when something slammed in their apartment.

I looked up.

“One day they’re going to bring down the entire wall.”

Eugène opened one eye from his place on the rug.

No concern whatsoever.

He had already accepted that humans were generally incompetent.

I started playing again, quietly.

This time, the melody went a little farther before getting stuck again.

Always the same place.

Always the same moment when my brain refused to move forward.

I let the final notes slowly die inside the studio.

Then nothing.

The calm returned.

Well.

Almost.

Because a few seconds later, I heard the footsteps on the other side again.

Faster.

Then a brief laugh.

I stayed still for no particular reason.

As though my brain were unconsciously waiting to hear whatever came next.

Ridiculous.

I placed the guitar back on its stand and got up to go to the kitchen area.

Eugène followed me immediately.

Of course.

The studio’s true owner had come to supervise my nighttime activities.

I made some tea while he circled my legs.

“You’ve already eaten.”

He meowed.

Obvious lie.

I gave him a few pieces of kibble anyway.

The water was heating when a louder noise suddenly sounded behind the wall.

Something being dropped.

Then hurried movement.

A window.

Or a balcony door.

I turned my head slightly.

Silence.

Then the woman’s voice, closer than usual.

Very close.

As though she were out on the balcony.

I frowned slightly before taking a sip of tea that was much too hot.

It didn’t matter.

The neighbors were living their lives.

People made noise.

That was what buildings were for.

Eugène, however, had already left the kitchen area.

I found him a few seconds later in front of the glass door.

Motionless.

Deeply focused.

Staring at the neighboring balcony.

As though he had spotted something interesting.

Or a very bad idea in the making.

I walked over and stopped vaguely behind him.

Outside, the night wrapped the adjoining balconies in bluish light.

Nothing unusual...

Probably.

Eugène slowly moved his tail without taking his eyes off the view.

I suddenly had the strange feeling that something was about to change.