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In reply to: Quintessence: Reversing the Fifth
Epilogue & Prologue
Paris, November 2029 – The Fifth Note Resounds
Tabitha sat by the window at the Sarah Bernhardt Café, letting the murmur of conversations and the occasional purring of the espresso machine settle around her. It was one of the few cafés left in the city where time still moved at a human pace. She stirred her cup absentmindedly. Paris was still Paris, but the world outside had changed in ways her mother’s generation still struggled to grasp.
It wasn’t just the ever-presence of automation and AI making themselves known in subtle ways—screens adjusting to glances, the quiet surveillance woven into everyday life. It wasn’t just the climate shifts, the aircon turned to cold in the midst of November, the summers unpredictable, the air thick with contradictions of progress and collapse of civilization across the Atlantic.
The certainty of impermanence was what defined her generation. BANI world they used to say—Brittle, Anxious, Nonlinear, Incomprehensible. A cold fact: impossible to grasp and impossible to fight. Unlike her mother and her friends, who had spent their lives tethered to a world that no longer existed, she had never known certainty. She was born in the flux.
And yet, this café remained. One of the last to resist full automation, where a human still brought you coffee, where the brass bell above the door still rang, where things still unfolded at a human pace.
The bell above the door rang—the fifth note, as her mother had called it once.
She had never been here before, not in any way that mattered. Yet, she had heard the story. The unlikely reunion five years ago. The night that moved new projects in motion for her mother and her friends.
Tabitha’s fingers traced the worn edges of the notebook in front of her—Lucien’s, then Amei’s, then Darius’s. Pieces of a life written by many hands.
“Some things don’t work the first time. But sometimes, in the ruins of what failed, something else sprouts and takes root.”
And that was what had happened.
The shared housing project they had once dreamed of hadn’t survived—not in its original form. But through their rekindled bond, they had started something else.
True Stories of How It Was.
It had begun as a quiet defiance—a way to preserve real, human stories in an age of synthetic, permanent ephemerality and ephemeral impermanence, constantly changing memory. They were living in a world where AI’s fabricated histories had overwhelmed all the channels of information, where the past was constantly rewritten, altered, repackaged. Authenticity had become a rare currency.
As she graduated in anthropology few years back, she’d wondered about the validity of history —it was, after all, a construct. The same could be said for literature, art, even science. All of them constructs of the human mind, tenuous grasp of the infinite truth, but once, they used to evolve at such a slow pace that they felt solid, reliable. Ultimately their group was not looking for ultimate truth, that would be arrogant and probably ignorant. Authenticity was what they were looking for. And with it, connections, love, genuineness —unquantifiables by means of science and yet, true and precious beyond measure.
Lucien had first suggested it, tracing the idea from his own frustrations—the way art had become a loop of generated iterations, the human touch increasingly erased. He was in a better place since Matteo had helped him settle his score with Renard and, free of influence, he had found confidence in developing of his own art.
Amei —her mother—, had changed in a way Tabitha couldn’t quite define. Her restlessness had quieted, not through settling down but through accepting impermanence as something other than loss. She had started writing again—not as a career, not to publish, but to preserve stories that had no place in a digitized world. Her quiet strength had always been in preserving connections, and she knew they had to move quickly before real history faded beneath layers of fabricated recollections.
Darius, once skeptical, saw its weight—he had spent years avoiding roots, only to realize that stories were the only thing that made places matter. He was somewhere in Morocco now, leading a sustainable design project, bridging cultures rather than simply passing through them.
Elara had left science. Or at least, science as she had known it. The calculations, the certainty, the constraints of academia, with no escape from the automated “enhanced” digital helpers. Her obsession and curiosities had found attract in something more human, more chaotic. She had thrown herself into reviving old knowledge, forgotten architectures, regenerative landscapes.
And Matteo—Matteo had grounded it.
The notebook read: Matteo wasn’t a ghost from our past. He was the missing note, the one we didn’t know we needed. And because of him, we stopped looking backward. We started building something else.
For so long, Matteo had been a ghost of sorts, by his own account, lingering at the edges of their story, the missing note in their unfinished chord. But now, he was fully part of it. His mother had passed, her past history unraveling in ways he had never expected, branching new connections even now. And though he had lost something in that, he had also found something else. Juliette. Or maybe not. The story wasn’t finished.
Tabitha turned the page.
“We were not historians, not preservationists, not even archivists. But we have lived. And as it turned out, that was enough.”
They had begun collecting stories through their networks—not legends, not myths, but true accounts of how it was, from people who still remembered.
A grandfather’s voice recording of a train ride to a city that no longer exists.
Handwritten recipes annotated by generations of hands, each adding something new.
A letter from a protest in 2027, detailing a movement that the history books had since erased.
An old woman’s story of her first love, spoken in a dialect that AI could not translate properly.It had grown in ways they hadn’t expected. People began sending them recordings, letters, transcripts, photos —handwritten scraps of fading ink. Some were anonymous, others carefully curated with full names and details, like makeshift ramparts against the tide of time.
At first, few had noticed. It was never the goal to make it worlwide movement. But little by little, strange things happened, and more began to listen.
There was something undeniably powerful about genuine human memory when it was raw and unfiltered, when it carried unpolished, raw weight of experience, untouched by apologetic watered down adornments and out-of-place generative hallucinations.
Now, there were exhibitions, readings, archives—entire underground movements dedicated to preserving pre-synthetic history. Their project had become something rare, valuable, almost sacred.
And yet, here in the café, none of that felt urgent.
Tabitha looked up as the server approached. Not Matteo, but someone new.
“Another espresso?”
She hesitated, then nodded. “Yes. And a glass of water, please.”
She glanced at the counter, where Matteo was leaning, speaking to someone, laughing. He had changed, too. No longer just an observer, no longer just the quiet figure who knew too much. Now, he belonged here.
A bell rang softly as the door swung open again.
Tabitha smiled to herself. The fifth note always sounded, in the end.
She turned back to the notebook, the city moving around her, the story still unfolding in more directions than one.
In reply to: Quintessence: Reversing the Fifth
Matteo — December 2022
Juliette leaned in, her phone screen glowing faintly between them. “Come on, pick something. It’s supposed to know everything—or at least sound like it does.”
Juliette was the one who’d introduced him to the app the whole world was abuzz talking about. MeowGPT.
At the New Year’s eve family dinner at Juliette’s parents, the whole house was alive with her sisters, nephews, and cousins. She entered a discussion with one of the kids, and they all seemed to know well about it. It was fun to see the adults were oblivious, himself included. He liked it about Juliette that she had such insatiable curiosity.
“It’s a life-changer, you know” she’d said “There’ll be a time, we won’t know about how we did without it. The kids born now will not know a world without it. Look, I’m sure my nephews are already cheating at their exams with it, or finding new ways to learn…”
“New ways to learn, that sounds like a mirage…. Bit of a drastic view to think we won’t live without; I’d like to think like with the mobile phones, we can still choose to live without.”
“And lose your way all the time with worn-out paper maps instead of GPS? That’s a grandpa mindset darling! I can see quite a few reasons not to choose!” she laughed.
“Anyway, we’ll see. What would you like to know about? A crazy recipe to grow hair? A fancy trip to a little known place? Write a technical instruction in the style of Elizabeth Tattler?”“Let me see…”
Matteo smirked, swirling the last sip of crémant in his glass. The lively discussions of Juliette’s family around them made the moment feel oddly private. “Alright, let’s try something practical. How about early signs of Alzheimer’s? You know, for Ma.”
Juliette’s smile softened as she tapped the query into the app. Matteo watched, half curious, half detached.
The app processed for a moment before responding in its overly chipper tone:
“Early signs of Alzheimer’s can include memory loss, difficulty planning or solving problems, and confusion with time or place. For personalized insights, understanding specific triggers, like stress or diet, can help manage early symptoms.”Matteo frowned. “That’s… general. I thought it was supposed to be revolutionary?”
“Wait for it,” Juliette said, tapping again, her tone teasing. “What if we ask it about long-term memory triggers? Something for nostalgia. Your Ma’s been into her old photos, right?”
The app spun its virtual gears and spat out a more detailed suggestion.
“Consider discussing familiar stories, music, or scents. Interestingly, recent studies on Alzheimer’s patients show a strong response to tactile memories. For example, one groundbreaking case involved genetic ancestry research coupled with personalized sensory cues.Juliette tilted her head, reading the screen aloud. “Huh, look at this—Dr. Elara V., a retired physicist, designed a patented method combining ancestral genetic research with soundwaves sensory stimuli to enhance attention and preserve memory function. Her work has been cited in connection with several studies on Alzheimer’s.”
“Elara?” Matteo’s brow furrowed. “Uncommon name… Where have I heard it before?”
Juliette shrugged. “Says here she retired to Tuscany after the pandemic. Fancy that.” She tapped the screen again, scrolling. “Apparently, she was a physicist with some quirky ideas. Had a side hustle on patents, one of which actually turned out useful. Something about genetic resonance? Sounds like a sci-fi movie.”
Matteo stared at the screen, a strange feeling tugging at him. “Genetic resonance…? It’s like these apps read your mind, huh? Do they just make this stuff up?”
Juliette laughed, nudging him. “Maybe! The system is far from foolproof, it may just have blurted out a completely imagined story, although it’s probably got it from somewhere on the internet. You better do your fact-checking. This woman would have published papers back when we were kids, and now the AI’s connecting dots.”
The name lingered with him, though. Elara. It felt distant yet oddly familiar, like the shadow of a memory just out of reach.
“You think she’s got more work like that?” he asked, more to himself than to Juliette.
Juliette handed him the phone. “You’re the one with the questions. Go ahead.”
Matteo hesitated before typing, almost without thinking: Elara Tuscany memory research.
The app processed again, and the next response was less clinical, more anecdotal.
“Elara V., known for her unconventional methods, retired to Tuscany where she invested in rural revitalization. A small village farmhouse became her retreat, and she occasionally supported artistic projects. Her most cited breakthrough involved pairing sensory stimuli with genetic lineage insights to enhance memory preservation.”Matteo tilted the phone towards Juliette. “She supports artists? Sounds like a soft spot for the dreamers.”
“Maybe she’s your type,” Juliette teased, grinning.
Matteo laughed, shaking his head. “Sure, if she wasn’t old enough to be my mother.”
The conversation shifted, but Matteo couldn’t shake the feeling the name had stirred. As Juliette’s family called them back to the table, he pocketed his phone, a strange warmth lingering—part curiosity, part recognition.
To think that months before, all that technologie to connect dots together didn’t exist. People would spend years of research, now accessible in a matter of seconds.
Later that night, as they were waiting for the new year countdown, he found himself wondering: What kind of person would spend their retirement investing in forgotten villages and forgotten dreams? Someone who believed in second chances, maybe. Someone who, like him, was drawn to the idea of piecing together a life from scattered connections.
In reply to: Quintessence: Reversing the Fifth
Elara — Nov 2021: The End of Genealogix
The numbers on the screen were almost comical in their smallness. Elara stared at the royalty statement, her lips pressed into a tight line as the cursor blinked on the final transaction: £12.37, marked Genealogix Royalty Deposit. Below it, the stark words: Final Payout.
She leaned back in her chair, pushing her glasses up onto her forehead, and sighed. The end wasn’t a surprise. For years, she’d known her genetic algorithm would be replaced by something faster, smarter, and infinitely more marketable. The AI companies had come, sweeping up data and patents like vultures at a sky burial. Genealogix, her improbable golden goose, had simply been outpaced.
Still, staring at the zero balance in the account felt oddly final, as if a door had quietly closed on a chapter of her life. She glanced toward the window, where the Tuscan hills rolled gently under the late afternoon sun. Most of the renovation work on the farmhouse had been finished, albeit slowly, over the years. There was no urgent financial burden, but the thought of her remaining savings made her stomach tighten all the same.
Elara had stumbled into success with Genealogix, though not without effort. It was one of her many patents—most of them quirky solutions to problems nobody else seemed interested in solving. A self-healing chalkboard coating? Useless. A way to chart audio waveforms onto three-dimensional paper models? Intriguing but commercially barren. Genealogix had been an afterthought at the time, something she tinkered with while traveling through Europe on a teaching fellowship.
When the royalties started rolling in unexpectedly, it had felt like a cosmic joke. “Finally,” she’d muttered to herself as she cashed her first sizeable check, “they like something useless.”
The freedom that money brought was a relief. It allowed her to drop the short-term contracts that tethered her to institutions and pursue science on her own terms. No rigid conventions, no endless grant applications, no academic politics. She’d call it “investigation,” free from the dogma that so often suffocated creativity.
And yet, she was no fool. She’d known Genealogix was a fluke, its lifespan limited.
She clicked away from the bank statement and opened her browser, absently scrolling through her bookmarked social accounts. An old post from Lucien caught her eye—a photograph of a half-finished painting, the colors dark and chaotic. His caption read: “When the labyrinth swallows the light.”
Her brow furrowed. She’d been quietly following Lucien for years, watching his work evolve through fits and starts. It was obvious he was struggling. This post was old, maybe Lucian had stopped updating after the pandemic. She’d sent anonymous payments to buy his paintings more than once, under names that would mean nothing to him —”Darlara Ameilikian” was a bit on the nose, but unlike Amei, Elara loved a good wink.
Her mind wandered to Darius, and her suggesting he looked into 1-euro housing schemes available in Italy. It had been during a long phone call, back when she was scouting options for herself. They still had tense exchanges, and he was smart to avoid any mention of his odd friends, otherwise she’d had hung the phone faster than a mouse chased by a pack of dogs. “You’d thrive in something like that,” she’d told him. “Build it with your own hands. Make it something meaningful.” He’d laughed but had sounded intrigued. She wondered if he’d ever followed up on it.
As for Amei—Elara had sent her a birthday gift earlier that year, a rare fabric she’d stumbled across in a tiny local shop. Amei hadn’t known it was from her, of course. That was Elara’s way. She preferred to keep her gestures quiet, almost random —it was best that way, she was rubbish at remembering the small stuff that mattered so much to people, she wasn’t even sure of Amei’s birthday to be honest; so she preferred to scatter little nods like seeds to the wind.
Her eyes drifted to a framed ticket stub on the bookshelf, a relic from 2007: Eliane Radigue — Naldjorlak II, Aarau Festival (Switzerland). Funny how the most unlikely event had made them into a group of friends. That concert had been a weird and improbable anchor point in their lives, a moment of serendipity that had drawn them toward something more than their own parts.
By that time, they were already good friends with Amei, and she’d agreed to join her to discover the music, although she could tell it was more for the strange appeal of something almost alien in experience, than for the hurdles of travel and logistics. But Elara’s enthusiasm and devil-may-care had won her over, and they were here.
Radigue’s strange sound sculptures, had rippled through the darkened festival scene, wavering and hauntingly delicate, and at the same time slow and deliberate, leading them towards an inevitability. Elara had been mesmerized, sitting alone near the back as Amei had gone for refreshments, when a stranger beside her had leaned over to ask, “What’s that sound? A bell? Or a drone?”
It was Lucien. Their conversation had lasted through the intermission soon joined by Amei, and spilled into a café afterward, where Darius had eventually joined them. They’d formed a bond that night, one that felt strange and tenuous at the time but proved to be resilient, even as the years pulled them apart.
Elara closed the laptop, resting her hand on its warm surface for a moment before standing. She walked to the window, the sun dipping lower over the horizon, casting long shadows across the vineyard. The farmhouse had been a gamble, a piece of the future she wasn’t entirely sure she believed in when she’d bought it. But now, as the light shifted and the hills glowed gold, she felt a quiet satisfaction.
The patent was gone, the money would fade, but she still had this. And perhaps, that was enough.
In reply to: Quintessence: Reversing the Fifth
Elara — December 2021
Taking a few steps back in order to see if the makeshift decorations were evenly spaced, Elara squinted as if to better see the overall effect, which was that of a lopsided bare branch with too few clove studded lemons. Nothing about it conjured up the spirit of Christmas, and she was surprised to find herself wishing she had tinsel, fat garlands of red and gold and green and silver tinsel, coloured fairy lights and those shiny baubles that would sever your toe clean off if you stepped on a broken one.
It’s because I can’t go out and buy any, she told herself, I hate tinsel.
It was Elara’s first Christmas in Tuscany, and the urge to have a Christmas tree had been unexpected. She hadn’t had a tree or decorated for Christmas for as long as she could remember, and although she enjoyed the social gathering with friends, she resented the forced gift exchange and disliked the very word festive.
The purchase of the farmhouse and the move from Warwick had been difficult, with the pandemic in full swing but a summer gap in restrictions had provided a window for the maneuvre. Work on the house had been slow and sporadic, but the weather was such a pleasant change from Warwick, and the land extensive, so that Elara spent the first months outside.
The solitude was welcome after the constant demands of her increasingly senile older sister and her motley brood of diverse offspring, and the constant dramas of the seemingly endless fruits of their loins. The fresh air, the warm sun on her skin, satisfying physical work in the garden and long walks was making her feel strong and able again, optimistic.
England had become so depressing, eating away at itself in gloom and loathing, racist and americanised, the corner pubs all long since closed and still boarded up or flattened to make ring roads around unspeakably grim housing estates and empty shops, populated with grey Lowry lives beetling around like stick figures, their days punctuated with domestic upsets both on their telly screens and in their kitchens. Vanessa’s overabundant family and the lack of any redeeming features in any of them, and the uninspiring and uninspired students at the university had taken its toll, and Elara became despondent and discouraged, and thus, failed to see any hopeful signs.
When the lockdown happened, instead of staying in contact with video calls, she did the opposite, and broke off all contact, ignoring phone calls, messages and emails from Vanessa’s family. The almost instant tranquility of mind was like a miracle, and Elara wondered why it had never occurred to her to do it before. Feeling so much better, Elara extended the idea to include ignoring all phone calls and messages, regardless of who they were. She attended to those regarding the Tuscan property and the sale of her house in Warwick.
The only personal messages she responded to during those first strange months of quarantine were from Florian. She had never met him in person, and the majority of their conversations were about shared genealogy research. The great thing about family ancestors, she’d once said to him, Is that they’re all dead and can’t argue about anything.
Christmas of December, 2021, and what a year it had been, not just for Elara, but for everyone. The isolation and solitude had worked well for her. She was where she wanted to be, and happy. She was alone, which is what she wanted.
If only I had some tinsel though.
In reply to: Quintessence: A Portrait in Reverse
Quintessence – Looking for the 5th — A concept film trailer…
The scene begins in reverse motion at the Parisian café at dusk, vibrant with life as four friends sit together, laughter and connection tangible. The scenes fades backward into a flashback sequence, unraveling across time and space. Brief flashes rewind through their lives:
- Lucien, the artist, sketching furiously in his studio, charcoal dust flying as he creates a labyrinth of faces.
- Darius, a traveler, striding through sunlit banana trees in Guadeloupe, the dappled light casting moving patterns on his determined face.
- Amei, the fabric artist, flipping through a stack of vibrant postcards at her cluttered desk, her fingers brushing over familiar textures.
- Elara, the rebel scientist, chalking spiraling equations and shapes on a blackboard, her eyes alight with discovery.
The threads coil faster, converging in reverse at a vibrant field in the verdant South of France. The sun streams across open land dotted with wildflowers, a faint outline of a shared dream—a co-housing project—lingering in the golden light. The scene ends on an empty but inviting promise, the land glowing with warmth and possibility.
In reply to: Quintessence: Reversing the Fifth
The Waking
Lucien – Early 2024 Darius – Dec 2022 Amei – 2022-2023 Elara – 2022 Matteo – Halloween 2023 Aversion/Reflection Jealousy/Accomplishment Pride/Equanimity Attachment/Discernment Ignorance/Wisdom The sky outside Lucien’s studio window was still dark, the faint glow of dawn breaking on the horizon. He woke suddenly, the echo of footsteps chasing him out of sleep. Renard’s shadow loomed in his mind like a smudge he couldn’t erase. He sat up, rubbing his temples, the remnants of the dream slipping away like water through his fingers. The chase felt endless, but this time, something had shifted. There was no fear in his chest—only a whisper of resolve. “Time to stop running.” The hum of the airplane’s engine filled Darius’s ears as he opened his eyes, the cabin lights dimmed for landing. He glanced at the blinking seatbelt sign and adjusted his scarf. The dream still lingered, faint and elusive, like smoke curling away before he could grasp it. He wasn’t sure where he’d been in his mind, but he felt a pull—something calling him back. South of France was just the next stop. Beyond that,… Beyond that? He didn’t know. Amei sat cross-legged on her living room floor, the guided meditation app still playing its soft tones through her headphones. Her breathing steadied, but her thoughts drifted. Images danced at the edges of her mind—threads weaving together, faces she couldn’t place, a labyrinth spiraling endlessly. The meditation always seemed to end with these fragments, leaving her both unsettled and curious. What was she trying to find? Elara woke with a start, the unfamiliar sensation of a dream etched vividly in her mind. Her dreams usually dissolved the moment she opened her eyes, but this one lingered, sharp and bright. She reached for her notebook on the bedside table, fumbling for the pen. The details spilled out onto the page—a white bull, a labyrinth of light, faces shifting like water. “I never remember my dreams,” she thought, “but this one… this one feels important.” Matteo woke to the sound of children laughing outside, their voices echoing through the streets of Avignon. Halloween wasn’t as big a deal here as elsewhere, but it had its charm. He stretched and sat up, the weight of a restless sleep hanging over him. His dreams had been strange—familiar faces, glowing patterns, a sense of something unfinished. The room seemed to glow for a moment. “Strange,” he thought, brushing it off as a trick of the light. “No resentment, only purpose.” “You’re not lost. You’re walking your own path.” “Messy patterns are still patterns.” “Let go. The beauty is in the flow.” “Everything is connected. Even the smallest light adds to the whole.” The Endless Chase –
Lucien ran through a labyrinth, its walls shifting and alive, made of tangled roots and flickering light. Behind him, the echo of footsteps and Renard’s voice calling his name, mocking him. But as he turned a corner, the walls parted to reveal a still lake, its surface reflecting the stars. He stopped, breathless, staring at his reflection in the water. It wasn’t him—it was a younger boy, wide-eyed and unafraid. The boy reached out, and Lucien felt a calm ripple through him. The chase wasn’t real. It never was. The walls dissolved, leaving him standing under a vast, open sky.The Wandering Maze –
Darius wandered through a green field, the tall grass brushing against his hands. The horizon seemed endless, but each step revealed new paths, twisting and turning like a living map. He saw figures ahead—people he thought he recognized—but when he reached them, they vanished, leaving only their footprints. Frustration welled up in his chest, but then he heard laughter—a clear, joyful sound. A child ran past him, leaving a trail of flowers in their wake. Darius followed, the path opening into a vibrant garden. There, he saw his own footprints, weaving among the flowers. “You’re not lost,” a voice said. “You’re walking your own path.”The Woven Tapestry –
Amei found herself in a dim room, lit only by the soft glow of a loom. Threads of every color stretched across the space, intertwining in intricate patterns. She sat before the loom, her hands moving instinctively, weaving the threads together. Faces appeared in the fabric—Tabitha, her estranged friends, even strangers she didn’t recognize. The threads wove tighter, forming a brilliant tapestry that seemed to hum with life. She saw herself in the center, not separate from the others but connected. This time she heard clearly “Messy patterns are still patterns,” a voice whispered, and she smiled.The Scattered Grains –
Elara stood on a beach, the sand slipping through her fingers as she tried to gather it. The harder she grasped, the more it escaped. A wave rolled in, sweeping the sand into intricate patterns that glowed under the moonlight. She knelt, watching the designs shift and shimmer, each one unique and fleeting. “Let go,” the wind seemed to say. “The beauty is in the flow.” Elara let the sand fall, and as it scattered, it transformed into light, rising like fireflies into the night sky.The Mandala of Light –
Matteo stood in a darkened room, the only light coming from a glowing mandala etched on the floor. As he stepped closer, the patterns began to move, spinning and shifting. Faces appeared—his mother, the friends he hadn’t yet met, and even his own reflection. The mandala expanded, encompassing the room, then the city, then the world. “Everything is connected,” a voice said, low and resonant. “Even the smallest light adds to the whole.” Matteo reached out, touching the edge of the mandala, and felt its warmth spread through him.
Dreamtime
It begins with running—feet pounding against the earth, my breath sharp in my chest. The path twists endlessly, the walls of the labyrinth curling like roots, closing tighter with each turn. I know I’m being chased, though I never see who or what is behind me. The air thickens as I round a corner and come to a halt before a still lake. Its surface gleams under a canopy of stars, too perfect, too quiet. I kneel to look closer, and the face that stares back isn’t mine. A boy gazes up with wide, curious eyes, unafraid. He smiles as though he knows something I don’t, and my breath steadies. The walls of the labyrinth crumble, their roots receding into the earth. Around me, the horizon stretches wide and infinite, and I wonder if I’ve always been here.
The grass is soft under my feet, swaying with a breeze that hums like a song I almost recognize. I walk, though I don’t know where I’m going. Figures appear ahead—shadowy forms I think I know—but as I approach, they dissolve into mist. I call out, but my voice is swallowed by the wind. Laughter ripples through the air, and a child darts past me, their feet leaving trails of flowers in the earth. I follow, unable to stop myself. The path unfolds into a garden, vibrant and alive, every bloom humming with its own quiet song. At the center, I find myself again—my own footprints weaving among the flowers. The laughter returns, soft and knowing. A voice says, “You’re not lost. You’re walking your own path.” But whose voice is it? My own? Someone else’s? I can’t tell.
The scene shifts, or maybe it’s always been this way. Threads of light stretch across the horizon, forming a vast loom. My hands move instinctively, weaving the threads into patterns I don’t understand but feel compelled to create. Faces emerge in the fabric—some I know, others I only feel. Each thread hums with life, vibrating with its own story. The patterns grow more intricate, their colors blending into something breathtaking. At the center, my own face appears, not solitary but connected to all the others. The threads seem to breathe, their rhythm matching my own heartbeat. A voice whispers, teasing but kind: “Messy patterns are still patterns.” I want to laugh, or cry, or maybe both, but my hands keep weaving as the threads dissolve into light.
I’m on the beach now, though I don’t remember how I got here. The sand is cool under my hands, slipping through my fingers no matter how tightly I try to hold it. A wave rolls in, its foam glowing under a pale moon. Where the water touches the sand, intricate patterns bloom—spirals, mandalas, fleeting images that shift with the tide. I try to gather them, to keep them, but the harder I hold on, the faster they fade. A breeze lifts the patterns into the air, scattering them like fireflies. I watch them go, feeling both loss and wonder. “Let go,” a voice says, carried by the wind. “The beauty is in the flow.” I let the sand fall from my hands, and for the first time, I see the patterns clearly, etched not on the ground but in the sky.
The room is dark, yet I see everything. A mandala of light spreads across the floor, its intricate shapes pulsing with a rhythm I recognize but can’t place. I step closer, and the mandala begins to spin, its patterns expanding to fill the room, then the city, then the world. Faces appear within the light—my mother’s, a child’s, strangers I know but have never met. The mandala connects everything it touches, its warmth spreading through me like a flame. I reach out, my hand trembling, and the moment I touch it, a voice echoes in the air: “Everything is connected. Even the smallest light adds to the whole.” The mandala slows, its light softening, and I find myself standing at its center, whole and unafraid.
I feel the labyrinth’s walls returning, but they’re no longer enclosing me—they’re part of the loom, their roots weaving into the threads. The flowers of the garden bloom within the mandala’s light, their petals scattering like sand into the tide. The waves carry them to the horizon, where they rise into the sky, forming constellations I feel I’ve always known.
I wake—or do I? The dream lingers, its light and rhythm threading through my thoughts. It feels like a map, a guide, a story unfinished. I see the faces again—yours, mine, ours—and wonder where the path leads next.
In reply to: Quintessence: Reversing the Fifth
Early May 2022
“You don’t look like a physicist,” Florian said on their first evening together. Most of the day since his arrival that morning had been taken up with Elara showing him around the farmhouse and a stroll outside after he’d unpacked and showered.
It was early May, Elara’s favourite time of the year, and the pandemic restrictions were largely over. An enthusiastic hiker and ardent lover of the countryside, Florian found his hosts running commentary as they walked the blossomy lanes a tonic after the grim scenesand mental anguish he’d left behind. Elara beamed at his evident interest and perspicacious questions, warming to him and realising how much she’d missed company and conversation during the lockdowns and subsequent limiting of social interactions. It’s so nice to have a conversation in English, she couldn’t help thinking.
Laughing, Elara replied that she’d never felt like a physicist either. “As soon as I started my first post after qualifying, I realised it wasn’t for me. I hadn’t really thought about the jobs, you know?”
Happy to have such an attentive listener, the convivial glow of red wine warming her veins, Elara explained that she’d resorted to short term teaching contracts mostly, enabling her to travel. She learned Spanish when she moved with her father to Spain 30 years ago, working in an English school for expats, improved her French while working in Paris, moved to Warwick to be near her sister Vanessa thinking she would settle there, “Big mistake that was, best forgotten.”
“I always wanted to travel a bit, but the wife always wanted to go to a resort to sunbathe,” Florian said, adding pensively, “I think the kids would have liked to travel though.”
“I think you’ll enjoy your stay here,” Elara smiled, not wanting the pleasant evening to take a despondant turn. Florian was here to get over it, not dwell on it.
In reply to: Quintessence: A Portrait in Reverse
A list of events for reference (WIP)
Date Matteo Lucien Darius Amei Elara Nov 2024 M: Working as a server in Paris; recognizes and cryptically addresses the group at the Sarah Bernhardt Café. L: Sketching in Paris; begins orchestrating the reunion by sending letters to the group. D: is back in Paris for the reunion A: visits Paris for the reunion E: visits Paris for the reunion from Churchill Guest House (Samphire Hoe), visits a guest house in Kent, back in England for a week weeks/months, all expense paid. Mrs Lovejoy the landlady. Spring 2024 M: In Avignon, works at a vineyard. Finds a map. Crosses path with Lucien. Moves to next job in Paris. L: Visits Avignon. Caught in debt to Monsieur Renard; creates labyrinthine sketches blending personal and mythical themes. Crosses path with Matteo. D: by June 2024 sends a postcard to Amei, Is seen in Goa A: Her daughter Tabitha is in Goa teaching E: is retired in Tuscany, living with Florian, a distant relative met through family research.
Summer 2024 (Olympics) has a strange dream at CERN learning about the death of her mother who’d actually died in her youth.
She reminisces about chalkapocalypse.Feb 2024 M:In London, works for a moving company. Crosses path with Amei and Tabitha. L: Is implied he is caught back into the schemes of M. Renard to pay his debts. D: A: Moves from her London home to a smaller apartment in London; reflects on her estranged friends and past. Crosses path with Matteo. E: Dec 2023 M:In Avignon, considers moving to a job in London to support his mother’s care. L: Going with the alias “Julien”, he is recognized in the streets, after 3 years of self-imposed exile, to escape M. Renard & Eloïse. D: Resumes his travels on his own terms A: Buys candles, reflects on leaving. E: Nov 2023 M: His mother requires more care, he goes to Avignon regularly where she is in care. Breaks up with Juliette end of summer. L: D: moves on from Guadeloupe, where he spent time rebuilding homes and reflecting. A: E: early 2023 M: Visits Valencia and Xàtiva, hometown of the Borgias with Juliette; she makes him discover Darius’ videos. L: D: Lives in South of France, returns to Guadeloupe after hurricane Fiona. A: E: Dec 2022 M: New year’s eve, Matteo discovers about Elara’s work on memory applicable to early stage Alzheimer with sensory soundwaves stimuli and ancestral genetic research. L: D: Runs a wellness channel. Goes back to Paris, breaks ties with M. Renard & Eloïse. Receives an invitation to see friends in South of France A: Lives with Paul E: early 2022 M: Lives in Paris with Juliette, travels to many places together, week-ends getaways in London, Amsterdam, Rome… L: D: A: E: Early May, pandemic restrictions were largely over. Florian, her distant relative, moves in to Elara’s Tuscan farmhouse, where she is enjoying retirement. end of 2021 M: L: After the pandemic lockdown thinks of a way to escape. Goes by the alias “Julien” D: Locked down in Budapest; sketches empty streets, sends postcards to Amei to maintain emotional connections. A: E: Dec. 2021, first Christmas in Tuscany
Nov – end of Genealogix royalties from her successful patent, taken over by more efficient AI algorithms. She gives the idea to Darius of looking for 1-euro housing.beginning 2021 M: L: Third & last wave of lockdown measures in France D: A: E: 2020 M: L: D: A: E: beg. 2020 M: L: Pandemic starts – first waves of lockdown D: A: E: Nov 2019 M: Last group meeting before the Nov 2024 reunion L: Last group meeting before the Nov 2024 reunion D: Last group meeting before the Nov 2024 reunion A: Last group meeting before the Nov 2024 reunion E: Last group meeting before the Nov 2024 reunion 2019 M: Plans for his mother / co-housing project L: Spring break in Andalucia with Elara D: Spring break in Andalucia with Elara A: Spring break in Andalucia with Elara E: Spring, before pandemic; visit in Andalucia to her father – joined by Lucien & Amei ; Darius tried to bring those people (M. Renard & Eloïse presumably) to see the hidden pyramid ca. 2014 M: L: D: A: E: chalkapocalypse, before Elara’s retirement. She is employed in Warwick.
Before that, lived from short term teaching contracts mostly, enabling her to travel. She learned Spanish when she moved with her father to Spain 30 years ago, working in an English school for expats, improved her French while working in Paris, moved to Warwick to be near her sister Vanessa thinking she would settle there.2010 M: L: D: A: E: Genealogix became unexpectedly lucrative when it was picked up by a now-dominant genealogy platform around 2010. Every ancestry test sold earned her a modest but steady royalty, which for a time, gave her the freedom to pursue less practical research. 2007 M: L: Meets Elara & Amei, Darius a concert of Eliane Radigue at Aarau, Switzerland D: Meets Lucien, Elara & Amei a concert of Eliane Radigue at Aarau, Switzerland A:Accepts Elara’s invitation to go to a concert of Eliane Radigue at Aarau, Switzerland, meets Lucien & Darius there. The group is formed E:Goes to a concert of Eliane Radigue at Aarau, Switzerland with Amei, meets Lucien & Darius there. The group is formed before 2007 M: L: D: A:Meets Elara at a gallery in London, Southbank E: Meets Amei at a gallery, London Southbank In reply to: Quintessence: Reversing the Fifth
Amei switched on the TV for background noise as she tackled another pile of books. The usual mid-morning chatter filled the room—updates on the weather, a cooking segment, and finally, the news. She was only half-listening until the anchor’s voice caught her attention.
“In the race against climate change, scientists at Harvard are turning to an unexpected solution: chalk. The ambitious project involves launching a balloon into the stratosphere, carrying 600 kilograms of calcium carbonate, which would be sprayed 12 miles above the Earth’s surface. The idea? To reflect sunlight and slow global warming.”
Amei looked up. The screen showed an animated demonstration of the project—a balloon rising into the atmosphere, spraying fine particles into the air. The narration continued, but her focus drifted, caught on a single word: chalk.
Elara loved chalk. Amei smiled faintly, remembering how passionately she used to talk about it—the way she could turn something so mundane into a story of structure, history, and beauty. “It’s not just a rock,” Elara had said once, gesturing dramatically, “it’s a record of time.”
She wasn’t even sure where Elara was these days. The last time they’d spoken was during lockdown. Amei had called to check in, awkward but well-meaning, only to be met with curt responses and a tone that made it clear Elara wanted the conversation over.
She hadn’t tried again after that. It hurt more than she’d expected. Elara could be all or nothing when it came to friendships—brilliant and intense one moment, distant and impenetrable the next. Amei had always known that about her, but knowing didn’t make it any easier.
The news droned on in the background, but Amei reached for the remote and switched off the TV. Her mind was elsewhere, tangled in memories.
She’d first met Elara in a gallery on Southbank, a tiny exhibition tucked away in a brutalist building. It was near Amei’s shared flat, and with her flatmates out for the evening, she had gone alone, more out of boredom than genuine interest. The display wasn’t large—just a few photographs and abstract sculptures, their descriptions dense with scientific jargon.
Amei stood in front of a piece labelled The Geometry of Chaos—a spiraling wire structure that cast intricate, shifting shadows on the wall. She tilted her head, trying to look engaged, though her thoughts were already drifting towards home and her comfy bed.
“Magnificent, isn’t it?”
The voice startled her. She turned to see a dark-haired woman, arms crossed, studying the piece with an intensity that made Amei feel as though she must have missed something obvious. The woman wore a long, flowing skirt, layered necklaces, and a cardigan that looked hand-knitted. Her dark hair was piled into a messy bun, a few strands escaping to frame her face.
“It’s quite interesting,” Amei said. “But I’m not sure I get it.”
“It’s not about getting it. It’s about recognizing the pattern,” the woman replied, stepping closer. She pointed to the shadows on the wall. “See? The curve repeats itself. Infinite, but contained.”
“You sound like you know what you’re talking about.”
“I do,” she said. “Do you?”
Amei laughed, caught off guard. “Not very often. I think I’m more into… messy patterns.”
The woman’s sharp expression softened slightly. “Messy patterns are still patterns.” She smiled. “I’m Elara.”
“Amei,” she replied, returning the smile.
Elara’s gaze dropped, and she nodded toward Amei’s skirt. “I’ve been admiring your skirt. Gorgeous fabric. Where did you get it?”
“Oh, I made it, actually,” Amei felt proud.
Elara raised her eyebrows. “You made it? I’m impressed.”
And that was how it began. A chance meeting that turned into decades of close friendship. They’d left the gallery together, talking all the way to a nearby café.
In reply to: Quintessence: Reversing the Fifth
The first one to find the bar buys the drinks, Darius had said, and they’d all laughed, but it was no laughing matter being lost in those woods.
Siiting on a cushion on the floor surrounded by cardboard shoeboxes and piles of photos and letters, Elara leaned towards the lamp to better see the photograph. The white bull.
Lucien had refused when Elara asked him to do a painting of the white bull, and then relented and said he would. But he hadn’t, not that she knew of anyway. The incident had happened the year before the pandemic, the spring of 2019. Not long before they all went their separate ways. Elara had been visiting her father in Andalucia for his 90th birthday when a neighbour of his had told her about the stone in the woods. She knew the others would be interested and had invited them over; her father Roland had plenty of room at his finca overlooking the Hozgarganta river, and had no objections.
Darius had wanted to bring those people to see the pyramidal stone in the woods, and Elara was having none of it. I was told in private about that, I shouldn’t have shown anyone, Darius, not even you, she had told him. Resentfully, Darius had tried to argue his point: that it was for the greater good, shouldn’t be kept secret, and how could he keep it from them anyway, they would know he was hiding something.
You may not be able to find it again, look at the trouble we had. You might get attacked by wild boar or fall off a precipice into the gorge, Amei added, not relishing the idea of sharing the discovery with those people either. She couldn’t help thinking it wouldn’t be a bad thing if those people did disappear without a trace. Darius hadn’t been the same since getting sucked into their cultish clutches.
They had lost their way in the gloomy trackless forest trying to find the stone, impossible to see further than the next few trees. Increasingly alarmed at the boar tracks and the fading late afternoon light, Elara had suggested they give up and try and retrace their steps, rather than penetrating further down into the woods. And then suddenly Lucien shouted There is it! That’s it! and there it stood, rising above the tree canopy, the sharp grey stone sides contrasting gloriously with the thick tangled foliage.
Rushing towards it, they fanned out circling it, touching it, gazing up at the smooth sides. Solid stone, not constructed with blocks, its purpose indecipherable, astonishingly incongruous to the location.
Look, we need to start making our way back to the car, Elara had said, It’ll be dark in a couple of hours.
Amei had helped her convince Lucien and Darius who were reluctant to leave, promising another visit. Now we know where it is, she said, although she wasn’t sure if they did know how to find it again. It had appeared while they were lost, after all.The scramble back to the car had been no less confusing than the walk down to the stone, they only knew they had to go uphill to find the unpaved forest road.
Squinting as they emerged from trees into the sunlight, a spontaneous cheer was immediately silenced at the sight of the white bull lying serenely by the site of the road, glowing like white marble, implacable, wise, and godly.
Is it real? whispered Amei, awestruck.I wonder if Darius ever did take those people there, Elara wondered. It had never been mentioned again, but then, things started to change after that. So many things were left unsaid. Elara had never been back, but the white bull had stayed in her mind perhaps more even than the stone pyramid had. I wonder if Lucien ever did that painting of it? Elara propped the photo up behind a candlestick on the fireplace mantel. Now that she was retired, maybe she’d do a painting of it herself.
In reply to: Quintessence: A Portrait in Reverse
Exploring further potential backstory for the characters – to be explored further…
This thread beautifully connects to the lingering themes of fractured ideals, missed opportunities, and the pull of reconnection. Here’s an expanded exploration of the “habitats participatifs” (co-housing communities) and how they tie the characters together while weaving in subtle links to their estrangement and Matteo’s role as the fifth element.
Backstory: The Co-Housing Dream
Habitat Participatif: A Shared Vision
The group’s initial bond, forged through shared values and late-night conversations, had coalesced around a dream: buying land in the Drôme region of France to create a co-housing community. The French term habitat participatif—intergenerational, eco-conscious, and collaborative living—perfectly encapsulated their ideals.
What Drew Them In:
- Amei: Longing for a sense of rootedness and community after years of drifting.
- Elara: Intrigued by the participatory aspect, where decisions were made collectively, blending science and sustainability.
- Darius: Enchanted by the idea of shared creative spaces and a slower, more intentional way of living.
- Lucien: Inspired by the communal energy, imagining workshops where art could flourish outside the constraints of traditional galleries.
The Land in Drôme
They had narrowed their options to a specific site near the village of Crest, not far from Lyon. The land, sprawling and sun-drenched, had an old farmhouse that could serve as a communal hub, surrounded by fields and woods. A nearby river threaded through the valley, and the faint outline of mountains painted the horizon.
The traboules of Lyon, labyrinthine passageways, had captivated Amei during an earlier visit, leaving her wondering if their metaphorical weaving through life could mirror the paths their group sought to create.
The Role of Monsieur Renard
When it came to financing, the group faced challenges. None of them were particularly wealthy, and pooling their resources fell short. Enter Monsieur Renard, whose interest in supporting “projects with potential” brought him into their orbit through Éloïse.
Initial Promise:
- Renard presented himself as a patron of innovation, sustainability, and community projects, offering seed funding in exchange for a minor share in the enterprise.
- His charisma and Éloïse’s insistence made him seem like the perfect ally—until his controlling tendencies emerged.
The Split: Fractured Trust
Renard’s involvement—and Éloïse’s increasing influence on Darius—created fault lines in the group.
- Darius’s Drift:
- Darius became entranced by Renard and Éloïse’s vision of community as something deeper, bordering on spiritual. Renard spoke of “energetic alignment” and the importance of a guiding vision, which resonated with Darius’s creative side.
- He began advocating for Renard’s deeper involvement, insisting the project couldn’t succeed without external backing.
- Elara’s Resistance:
- Elara, ever the pragmatist, saw Renard as manipulative, his promises too vague and his influence too broad. Her resistance created tension with Darius, whom she accused of being naive.
- “This isn’t about community for him,” she had said. “It’s about control.”
- Lucien’s Hesitation:
- Lucien, torn between loyalty to his friends and his own fascination with Éloïse, wavered. Her talk of labyrinths and collective energy intrigued him, but he grew wary of her sway over Darius.
- When Renard offered to fund Lucien’s art, he hesitated, sensing a price he couldn’t articulate.
- Amei’s Silence:
- Amei, haunted by her own experiences with manipulation in past relationships, withdrew. She saw the dream slipping away but couldn’t bring herself to fight for it.
Matteo’s Unseen Role
Unbeknownst to the others, Matteo had been invited to join as a fifth partner—a practical addition to balance their idealism. His background in construction and agriculture, coupled with his easygoing nature, made him a perfect fit.
The Missed Connection:
- Matteo had visited the Drôme site briefly, a stranger to the group but intrigued by their vision. His presence was meant to ground their plans, to bring practicality to their shared dream.
- By the time he arrived, however, the group’s fractures were deepening. Renard’s shadow loomed too large, and the guru-like influence of Éloïse had soured the collaborative energy. Matteo left quietly, sensing the dream unraveling before it could take root.
The Fallout: A Fractured Dream
The group dissolved after a final argument about Renard’s involvement:
- Elara refused to move forward with his funding. “I’m not selling my future to him,” she said bluntly.
- Darius, feeling betrayed, accused her of sabotaging the dream out of stubbornness.
- Lucien, caught in the middle, tried to mediate but ultimately sided with Elara.
- Amei, already pulling away, suggested they put the project on hold.
The land was never purchased. The group scattered soon after, their estrangement compounded by the pandemic. Matteo drifted in a different direction, their connection lost before it could form.
Amei’s Perspective: Post-Split Reflection
In the scene where Amei buys candles :
- The shopkeeper’s comments about “seeking something greater” resonate with Amei’s memory of the co-housing dream and how it became entangled with Éloïse and Renard’s influence.
- Her sharper-than-usual reply reflects her lingering bitterness over the way “seeking” led to manipulation and betrayal.
Reunion at the Café: A New Beginning
When the group reunites, the dream of the co-housing project lingers as a symbol of what was lost—but also of what could still be reclaimed. Matteo’s presence at the café bridges the gap between their fractured past and a potential new path.
Matteo’s Role:
- His unspoken connection to the co-housing plan becomes a point of quiet irony: he was meant to be part of their story all along but arrived too late. Now, at the café, he steps into the role he missed years ago—the one who helps them see the threads that still bind them.
In reply to: Quintessence: A Portrait in Reverse
Some elements for inspiration as to the backstory of the group and how it could tie to the current state of the story:
Here’s a draft version of the drama surrounding Éloïse and Monsieur Renard (the “strange couple”), incorporating their involvement with Darius, their influence on the group’s dynamic, and the fallout that caused the estrangement five years ago.
The Strange Couple: Éloïse and Monsieur Renard
Winter 2019: Paris, Just Before the Pandemic
The group’s last reunion before their estrangement was supposed to be a celebration—one of those rare moments when their diverging paths aligned. They had gathered in Paris in late December, the city cloaked in gray skies and glowing light. The plan was simple: a few days together, catching up, exploring old haunts, and indulging in the kind of reckless spontaneity that had defined their earlier years.
It was Darius who disrupted the rhythm. He had arrived late to their first dinner, rain-soaked and apologetic, with Éloïse and Monsieur Renard in tow.
First Impressions of Éloïse and Monsieur Renard
Éloïse was striking—lithe, dark-haired, with sharp eyes that seemed to unearth secrets before you could name them. She moved with a predatory grace, her laughter a mix of charm and edge. Renard was her shadow, older and impeccably dressed, his silvery hair and angular features giving him the air of a fox. He spoke little, but when he did, his words had the weight of finality, as if he were accustomed to being obeyed.
“They’re just friends,” Darius said when the others exchanged wary glances. “They’re… interesting. You’ll like them.”
But it didn’t take long for Éloïse and Renard to unsettle the group. At dinner, Éloïse dominated the conversation, her stories wild and improbable—of séances in abandoned mansions, of lost artifacts with strange energies, of lives transformed by unseen forces. Renard’s occasional interjections only added to the mystique, his tone implying he’d seen more than he cared to share.
Lucien, ever the skeptic, found himself drawn to Éloïse despite his instincts. Her talk of energies and symbols resonated with his artistic side, and when she mentioned labyrinths, his attention sharpened.
Elara, in contrast, bristled at their presence. She saw through their mystique, recognizing in Renard the manipulative charisma of someone who thrived on control.
Amei was harder to read, but she watched Éloïse and Renard closely, her silence betraying a guardedness that hinted at deeper discomfort.
Darius’s Growing Involvement
Over the following days, Darius spent more time with Éloïse and Renard, skipping planned outings with the group. He spoke of them with a reverence that was uncharacteristic, praising their insight into things he’d never thought to question.
“They see connections in everything,” he told Amei during a rare moment alone. “It’s… enlightening.”
“Connections to what?” she asked, her tone sharper than she intended.
“Paths, people, purpose,” he replied vaguely. “It’s hard to explain, but it feels… right.”
Amei didn’t press further, but she mentioned it to Elara later. “It’s like he’s slipping into something he can’t see his way out of,” she said.
The Séance
The turning point came during an impromptu gathering at Éloïse and Renard’s rented apartment—a dimly lit space filled with strange objects: glass jars of cloudy liquid, intricate carvings, and an ornate bronze bell hanging above the mantelpiece.
Éloïse had invited the group for what she called “an evening of clarity.” The others arrived reluctantly, wary of what she had planned but unwilling to let Darius face it alone.
The séance began innocuously enough—Éloïse guiding them through what she described as a “journey inward.” She spoke in a low, rhythmic tone, her words weaving a spell that was hard to resist.
Then things took a darker turn. She asked them to focus on the labyrinth she had drawn on the table—a design eerily similar to the map Lucien had found weeks earlier.
“You must find your center,” she said, her voice dropping. “But beware the edges. They’ll show you things you’re not ready to see.”
The room grew heavy with silence. Darius leaned into the moment, his eyes closed, his breathing steady. Lucien tried to focus but felt a growing unease. Elara sat rigid, her scientific mind railing against the absurdity of it all. Amei’s hands gripped the edge of the table, her knuckles white.
And then, the bell rang.
It was faint at first, a distant chime that seemed to come from nowhere. Then it grew louder, resonating through the room, its tone deep and haunting.
“What the hell is that?” Lucien muttered, his eyes snapping open.
Éloïse smiled faintly but said nothing. Renard’s expression remained inscrutable, though his fingers tapped rhythmically against the table, as if counting something unseen.
Elara stood abruptly, breaking the spell. “This is ridiculous,” she said. “You’re playing with people’s minds.”
Darius’s eyes opened, his gaze unfocused. “You don’t understand,” he said softly. “It’s not a game.”
The Fallout
The séance fractured the group.
- Elara: Left the apartment furious, calling Renard a charlatan and vowing never to entertain such nonsense again. Her relationship with Darius cooled, her disappointment palpable.
- Lucien: Became fascinated with the labyrinth and its connection to his art, but he couldn’t shake the unease the séance had left. His conversations with Éloïse deepened in the following days, further isolating him from the group.
- Amei: Refused to speak about what she’d experienced. When pressed, she simply said, “Some things are better left forgotten.”
- Darius stayed with Éloïse and Renard for weeks after the others left Paris, becoming more entrenched in their world. But something changed. When he finally returned, he was distant and cagey, unwilling to discuss what had happened during his time with them.
Lingering Questions
- What Happened to Darius with Éloïse and Renard?
- Darius’s silence suggests something traumatic or transformative occurred during his deeper involvement with the couple.
- The Bell’s Role:
- The bronze bell that rang during the séance ties into its repeated presence in the story. Was it part of the couple’s mystique, or does it hold a deeper significance?
- Lucien’s Entanglement:
- Éloïse and Renard’s Motives:
- Were they simply grifters manipulating Darius and others, or were they genuinely exploring something deeper, darker, and potentially dangerous?
Impact on the Reunion
In reply to: Quintessence: Reversing the Fifth
Spring 2024
Matteo was wandering through the streets of Avignon, the spring air heavy with the scent of blooming flowers and sun-warmed stone. The hum of activity surrounded him—shopkeepers arranging displays, the occasional burst of laughter from a café terrace. He walked with no particular destination, drawn more by instinct than intent, until a splash of colour caught his eye.
On the cobblestones ahead, an artist crouched over a sprawling chalk drawing. It was a labyrinthine map, its intricate paths winding across the ground with deliberate precision. Matteo froze, his breath catching. The resemblance to the map he’d found at the vineyard office was uncanny—the same loops and spirals, the same sense of motion and stillness intertwined. But it wasn’t the map itself that held him in place. It was the faces.
Four of them, scattered in different corners of the design, each rendered with surprising detail. Beneath them were names. Matteo felt a shiver crawl up his spine. He knew three of those faces. Amei, Elara, Darius… he had met each of them once, in moments that now felt distant and fragmented. Strangers to him, but not quite.
The artist shifted, brushing dark, rain-damp curls from his forehead. His scarf, streaked faintly with paint, hung loosely around his neck. Matteo stepped closer, his curiosity overpowering any hesitation. “Is that your name?” he asked, gesturing toward the face labeled Lucien.
The artist straightened, his hand resting lightly on a piece of green chalk. He studied Matteo for a moment, his expression unreadable. “Yes,” he said simply, his voice low but clear.
Matteo crouched beside him, tracing the edge of the map with his eyes. “It’s incredible,” he said. “The detail, the connections. Why the faces?”
Lucien hesitated, glancing at the names scattered across his work. “Because that’s how it is,” he said softly. “We’re all here, but… not together.”
Matteo tilted his head, intrigued. “You mean you’ve drifted?”
Lucien nodded, his gaze dropping to the chalk in his hand. “Something like that. Paths cross, then they don’t. People take their turns.”
Matteo studied the map again, its intertwining lines seeming both chaotic and deliberate. The faces stared back at him, and he felt the pull of the map he no longer carried. “Do you think paths can lead back?” he asked, his voice thoughtful.
Lucien glanced at him, something flickering briefly in his eyes. “Sometimes. If you follow them long enough.”
Matteo smiled faintly, standing. His curiosity shifted as he turned his attention to the artist himself. “Do you know where I can find absinthe?” he asked.
Lucien raised an eyebrow. “Absinthe? Haven’t heard anyone ask for that in a while.”
“Just something I’ve been chasing,” Matteo replied lightly, his tone almost playful.
Lucien gestured vaguely toward a café down the street. “You might try there. They keep the old things alive.”
“Thanks,” Matteo said, offering a nod. He took a few steps away but paused, turning back to the artist still crouched over his map. “It’s a good drawing,” he said. “Hope your paths cross again.”
Lucien didn’t reply, but his hand moved back to the chalk, drawing a faint line that connected two of the faces. Matteo watched for a moment longer before continuing down the street, the memory of the map and the names lingering in his mind like an unanswered question. Paths crossed, he thought, but maybe they didn’t always stay apart.
For the first time in days, Matteo felt a strange sense of possibility. The map was gone, but perhaps it had done what it was meant to do—leave its mark.
In reply to: Quintessence: Reversing the Fifth
Mon. November 25th, 10am.
The bell sat on the stool near Lucien’s workbench, its bronze surface polished to a faint glow. He had spent the last ten minutes running a soft cloth over its etched patterns, tracing the curves and grooves he’d never fully understood. It wasn’t the first time he had picked it up, and it wouldn’t be the last. Something about the bell kept him tethered to it, even after all these years. He could still remember the day he’d found it—a cold morning at a flea market in the north of Paris, the stalls cramped and overflowing with gaudy trinkets, antiques, and forgotten relics.
He’d spotted it on a cluttered table, nestled between a rusted lamp and a cracked porcelain dish. As he reached for it, she had appeared, her dark eyes sharp with curiosity and mischief. Éloïse. The bell had been their first conversation, its strange beauty sparking a connection that quickly spiraled into something far more dangerous. Her charm masking the shadows she moved in. Slowly she became the reason he distanced himself from Amei, Elara, and Darius. It hadn’t been intentional, at least not at first. But by the time he realized what was happening, it was already too late.
A sharp knock at the door yanked him from the memory. Lucien’s hand froze mid-polish, the cloth resting against the bell. The knock came again, louder this time, impatient. He knew who it would be, though the name on the patron’s lips changed depending on who was asking. Most called him “Monsieur Renard.” The Fox. A nickname as smooth and calculating as the man himself.
Lucien opened the door, and Monsieur Renard stepped in, his gray suit immaculate and his air of quiet authority as sharp as ever. His eyes swept the studio, frowning as they landed on the unfinished painting on the easel—a lavish banquet scene, rich with silver and velvet.
“Lucien,” Renard said smoothly, his voice cutting through the silence. “I trust you’ll be ready to deliver on this commission.”
Lucien stiffened. “I need more time.”
“Of course,” Renard replied with a small smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “We all need something we can’t have. You have until the end of the week. Don’t make her regret recommending you.”
As Renard spoke, his gaze fell on the bell perched on the stool. “What’s this?” he asked, stepping closer. He picked it up, his long and strong fingers brushing the polished surface. “Charming,” he murmured, turning it over. “A flea market find, I suppose?”
Lucien said nothing, his jaw tightening as Renard tipped the bell slightly, the etched patterns catching the faint light from the window. Without care, Renard dropped it back onto the stool, the force of the motion knocking it over. The bell struck the wood with a resonant tone that lingered in the air, low and haunting.
Renard didn’t even glance at it. “You’ve always had a weakness for the past,” he remarked lightly, turning his attention back to the painting. “I’ll leave you to it. Don’t disappoint.”
With that, he was gone, his polished shoes clicking against the floor as he disappeared down the hall.
Lucien stood in the silence, staring at the bell where it had fallen, its soft tone still reverberating in his mind. Slowly, he bent down and picked it up, cradling it in his hands. The polished bronze felt warm, almost alive, as if it were vibrating faintly beneath his fingertips. He wrapped it carefully in a piece of linen and placed it inside his suitcase, alongside his sketchbooks and a few hastily folded clothes. The suitcase had been half-packed for weeks, a quiet reflection of his own uncertainty—leaving or staying, running or standing still, he hadn’t known.
Crossing the room, he sat at his desk, staring at the blank paper in front of him. The pen felt heavy in his hand as he began to write: Sarah Bernhardt Cafe, November 30th , 4 PM. No excuses this time!
He paused, rereading the words, then wrote them again and again, folding each note with care. He didn’t know what he expected from his friends—Amei, Elara, Darius—but they were the only ones who might still know him, who might still see something in him worth saving. If there was a way out of the shadows Éloïse and Monsieur Renard had drawn him into, it lay with them.
As he sealed the last envelope, the low tone of the bell still hummed faintly in his memory, echoing like a call he couldn’t ignore.
In reply to: Quintessence: Reversing the Fifth
Amei sat cross-legged on the floor in what had once been the study, its emptiness amplified by the packed boxes stacked along the walls. The bookshelves were mostly bare now, save for a few piles of books she was donating to goodwill.
The window was open, and a soft breeze stirred the curtains, carrying with it the faint chime of church bells in the distance. Ten o’clock. Tomorrow was moving day.
Her notebooks were heaped beside her on the floor—a chaotic mix of battered leather covers, spiral-bound pads, and sleek journals bought in fleeting fits of optimism. She ran a hand over the stack, wondering if it was time to let them go. A fresh start meant travelling lighter, didn’t it?
She hesitated, then picked up the top notebook. Flipping it open, she skimmed the pages—lists, sketches, fragments of thoughts and poems. As she turned another page, a postcard slipped out and fluttered to the floor.
She picked it up. The faded image showed a winding mountain road, curling into mist. On the back, Darius had written:
“Found this place by accident. You’d love it. Or maybe hate it. Either way, it made me think of you. D.”
Amei stared at the card. She’d forgotten about these postcards, scattered through her notebooks like breadcrumbs to another time. Sliding it back into place, she set the notebook aside and reached for another, older one. Its edges were frayed, its cover softened by time.
She flicked through the pages until an entry caught her eye, scrawled as though written in haste:
Lucien found the map at a flea market. He thought it was just a novelty, but the seller was asking too much. L was ready to leave it when Elara saw the embossed bell in the corner. LIKE THE OTHER BELL. Darius was sure it wasn’t a coincidence, but of course wouldn’t say why. Typical. He insisted we buy it, and somehow the map ended up with me. “You’ll keep it safe,” he said. Safe from what? He wouldn’t say.
The map! Where was the map now? How had she forgotten it entirely? It had just been another one of their games back then, following whatever random clues they stumbled across. Fun at the time, but nothing she’d taken seriously. Maybe Darius had, though—especially in light of what happened later. She flipped the page, but the next entry was mundane—a note about Elara’s birthday. She read through to the end of the notebook, but there was no follow-up.
She glanced at the boxes. Could the map still be here, buried among her things? Stuffed into one of her notebooks? Or, most likely, had it been lost long ago?
She closed the notebook and sighed. Throwing them out would have been easier if they hadn’t started whispering to her again, pulling at fragments of a past she thought she had left behind.
In reply to: Quintessence: Reversing the Fifth
From Decay to Birth: a Map of Paths and Connections
7. Darius’s Encounter (November 2024)
Moments before the reunion with Lucien and his friends, Darius was wandering the bouquinistes along the Seine when he spotted this particular map among a stack of old prints. The design struck him immediately—the spirals, the loops, the faint shimmer of indigo against yellowed paper.
He purchased it without hesitation. As he would examine it more closely, he would notice faint marks along the edges—creases that had come from a vineyard pin, and a smudge of red dust, from Catalonia.
When the bouquiniste had mentioned that the map had come from a traveler passing through, Darius had felt a strange familiarity. It wasn’t the map itself but the echoes of its journey— quiet connections he couldn’t yet place.
6. Matteo’s Discovery (near Avignon, Spring 2024)
The office at the edge of the vineyard was a ruin, its beams sagging and its walls cracked. Matteo had wandered in during a quiet afternoon, drawn by the promise of shade and a moment of solitude.
His eyes scanned the room—a rusted typewriter, ledgers crumbling into dust, and a paper pinned to the wall, its edges curling with age. Matteo stepped closer, pulling the pin free and unfolding what turned out to be a map.
Its lines twisted and looped in ways that seemed deliberate yet impossible to follow. Matteo traced one path with his finger, feeling the faint grooves where the ink had sunk into the paper. Something about it unsettled him, though he couldn’t say why.
Days later, while sharing a drink with a traveler at the local inn, Matteo showed him the map.
“It’s beautiful,” the traveler said, running his hand over the faded indigo lines. “But it doesn’t belong here.”
Matteo nodded. “Take it, then. Maybe you’ll figure it out.”
The traveler left with the map that night, and Matteo returned to the vineyard, feeling lighter somehow.
5. From Hand to Hand (1995–2024)
By the time Matteo found it in the spring of 2024, the map had long been forgotten, its intricate lines dulled by dust and time.
2012: A vineyard owner near Avignon purchased it at an estate sale, pinning it to the wall of his office without much thought.
2001: A collector in Marseille framed it in her study, claiming it was a lost artifact of a secret cartographer society, though she later sold it when funds ran low.
1997: A scholar in Barcelona traded an old atlas for it, drawn to its artistry but unable to decipher its purpose.
The map had passed through many hands over the previous three decades and each owner puzzling over, and finally adding their own meaning to its lines.
4. The Artist (1995)
The mapmaker was a recluse, known only as Almadora to the handful of people who bought her work. Living in a sunlit attic in Girona, she spent her days tracing intricate patterns onto paper, claiming to chart not geography but connections.
“I don’t map what is,” she once told a curious buyer. “I map what could be.”
In 1995, Almadora began work on the labyrinthine map. She used a pale paper from Girona and indigo ink from India, layering lines that seemed to twist and spiral outward endlessly. The map wasn’t signed, nor did it bear any explanations. When it was finished, Almadora sold it to a passing merchant for a handful of coins, its journey into the world beginning quietly, without ceremony.
3. The Ink (1990s)
The ink came from a different path altogether. Indigo plants, or aviri, grown on Kongarapattu, were harvested, fermented, and dried into cakes of pigment. The process was ancient, perfected over centuries, and the resulting hue was so rich it seemed to vibrate with unexplored depth.
From the harbour of Pondicherry, this particular batch of indigo made its way to an artisan in Girona, who mixed it with oils and resins to create a striking ink. Its journey intersected with Amei’s much later, when remnants of the same batch were used to dye textiles she would work with as a designer. But in the mid-1990s, it served a singular purpose: to bring a recluse artist’s vision to life.
2. The Paper (1980)
The tree bore laughter and countless other sounds of nature and passer-by’s arguments for years, a sturdy presence, unwavering in a sea of shifting lives. Even after the farmhouse was sold, long after the sisters had grown apart, the tree remained. But time is merciless, even to the strongest roots.
By 1979, battered by storms and neglect, the great tree cracked and fell, its once-proud form reduced to timber for a nearby mill.
The tree’s journey didn’t end in the mill; it transformed. Its wood was stripped, pulped, and pressed into paper. Some sheets were coarse and rough, destined for everyday use. But a few, including one particularly smooth and pale sheet, were set aside as high-quality stock for specialized buyers.
This sheet traveled south to Catalonia, where it sat in a shop in Girona for years, its surface untouched but full of potential. By the time the artist found it in the mid-1990s, it had already begun to yellow at the edges, carrying the faint scent of age.
1. The Seed (1950s)
It began in a forgotten corner of Kent, where a seed took root beneath a patch of open sky. The tree grew tall and sprawling over decades, its branches a canopy for birds and children alike. By 1961, it had become the centerpiece of the small farmhouse where two young sisters, Vanessa and Elara, played beneath its shade.
“Elara, you’re too slow!” Vanessa called, her voice sharp with mock impatience. Elara, only six years old, trailed behind, clutching a wooden stick she used to scratch shapes into the dirt. “I’m making a map!” she announced, her curls bouncing as she ran to catch up.
Vanessa rolled her eyes, already halfway up the tree’s lowest branch. “You and your maps. You think you’re going somewhere?”
In reply to: Quintessence: Reversing the Fifth
It was the chalkapocalypse, which in actual fact occurred so close to Elara’s coming retirement that it hardly need have bothered her in the slightest, that had sparked her interest. She, like many of her colleagues, had quickly stockpiled the Japanese chalk, and she had more than enough to see out the remaining term of her employment at the university. Not that she wanted to stay at Warwick, she’d had enough of university politics and funding cuts, not to mention the dreary midlands weather.
When at last the day had come, she’d sold her mediocre semi detached suburban house with its, more often than not, dripping shrubbery and rarely if ever used white metal patio table and chairs, and made the move, with the intention of pursuing her research at her leisure. In the warmth of a Tuscan sun.
Often the words of her friend and colleague Tom came to her, as she settled into the farmhouse and familiarised herself with the land and the locals.
Physics is a process of getting stuck. Blackboards are the best tool for getting unstuck. You do most of your calculations on paper. Then, when you reach a dead end, you go to the blackboard and share the problem with a colleague. But here’s the funny thing. You often solve the problem yourself in the process of writing it out. You don’t imagine something first and then write it down. It’s through the act of writing that ideas make themselves known. Scientists at blackboards have thoughts that wouldn’t come if they just stood there, with their arms folded.
It was entirely down to Tom’s words that Elara had painted the walls of the barn with blackboard paint, and stocked it with the remains of her Hagoromo chalk hoard, as well as samples of every other available chalk. She had also purchased a number of books on the history of chalk. She’d had no intention of rushing, and retirement provided a relaxed environment for going at her own pace, unfettered by the relentless demands of students and classes. It was a project to savour, luxuriate in, amuse herself with.
When Florian had arrived, she was occupied with showing him around, and before long setting him to tasks that needed doing, and her chalk project had remained on a back burner. He’d asked her about the blackboards in the barn, and wondered if she was planning on giving lectures.
Laughing, Elara said no, that was the last thing she ever wanted to do again. She shared with him what Tom had said, about the ideas flowing during the process of writing.
“And while that makes perfect sense in any medium, not just chalk, it’s the chalk itself ….” Elara smiled. “Well, you don’t want to hear all the technical details. And I wouldn’t want to spill the beans before I’m sure.”
“It does make sense,” Florian replied, “To just write and then the ideas will flow. I’ve been wanting to write a book, but I never know how to start, and I’m not even sure what I want to write about. But perhaps I should just start writing.” Grinning, he added, “Probably not with chalk, though.”
“That’s the spirit, just make a start. You never know what may come of it. And it can be fun, you know, and illuminating in ways you didn’t expect. I used to write stories with a few friends….” Elara’s voice trailed off uncomfortably, as if a cloud had obscured the sun.
Florian noticed her unexpected discomfiture, and tactfully changed the subject. We all have pasts we don’t want to talk about. “Is the sun sufficiently past the yard arm for a glass of wine?” he asked. “What is a yard arm, anyway?”
“A yard is a spar on a mast from which sails are set. It may be constructed of timber or steel or from more modern materials such as aluminium or carbon fibre. Although some types of fore and aft rigs have yards, the term is usually used to describe the horizontal spars used on square rigged sails…”
“Once a lecturer, always a lecturer, eh?” Florian teased.
“Sorry!” Elara said with a rueful look. ” I’d love a glass of wine.”
In reply to: Quintessence: Reversing the Fifth
The luxury of an afternoon nap was one of the finer pleasures of retirement, particularly during the heat of an Italian summer. Elara stretched like a cat on the capacious sofa, pulling a couple of kilim covered cushions into place to support her neck. She had only read a few pages of her book about the Cerne Abbas giant, the enigmatic chalk figure on a hill in Dorset, before her eyes slid closed and the book dropped with a thud onto her chest.
The distant clang of a bell woke her several hours later, although she remained motionless, unable to open her eyes at first. Not one to recall dreams as a rule, Elara was surprised at the intensity of the dream she was struggling to awaken from, and the clarity of the details, and the emotion. In the dream she was at the CERN conference, a clamour and cacophony of colleagues, some familiar to her in waking life, some characters complete strangers but familiar to her in the dream. She had felt agitation at the noise and at the cold coffee, and an indescribable feeling when Florian somehow appeared by her side, who was supposed to be in Tuscany, whispering in her ear that her mother had died and she was to make the funeral arrangements.
Elara’s mother had died when she was just a child, barely eight years old. She was no longer sure if she remembered her, or if her memories were from the photographs and anecdotes she’d seen and heard in the following years. Her older sister Vanessa had said darkly that she was lucky and well out of it, to not have had to put up with her when she was a teenager, like she had. Vanessa was ten years older than Elara, and had assumed the role of mother. She explained later that she’d let Elara run wild because she didn’t want to be bossy and domineering, but admitted that she should perhaps have reined her younger sister in a bit more than she had.
Again, the distant bell clanged. Shaking her head as if to dispel the memories the dream had conjured, Elara rose from the sofa and walked out on to the terrace. Across the yard she could see Florian, replacing the old bell on the new gate post.
“Sorry, did I wake you?” he called. “I had a bit of linen round the clanger so it didn’t make a noise while I screwed it to the post, but it slipped. Sorry,” he repeated.
Squinting in the bright sun, Elara strolled over to him, saying, “Honestly, don’t worry, I was glad to wake up. What a dream I had! That’s great Florian, nice job.”
In reply to: Quintessence: Reversing the Fifth
Sat. Nov. 30, 2024 – before the meeting
The afternoon light slanted through the tall studio windows, thin and watery, barely illuminating the scattered tools of Lucien’s trade. Brushes lay in disarray on the workbench, their bristles stiff with dried paint. The smell of turpentine hung heavy in the air, mingling with the faint dampness creeping in from the rain. He stood before the easel, staring at the unfinished painting, brush poised but unmoving.
The scene on the canvas was a lavish banquet, the kind of composition designed to impress: a gleaming silver tray, folds of deep red velvet, fruit piled high and glistening. Each detail was rendered with care, but the painting felt hollow, as if the soul of it had been left somewhere else. He hadn’t painted what he felt—only what was expected of him.
Lucien set the brush down and stepped back, wiping his hands on his scarf without thinking. It was streaked with paint from hours of work, colors smeared in careless frustration. He glanced toward the corner of the studio, where a suitcase leaned against the wall. It was packed with sketchbooks, a bundle wrapped in linen, and clothes hastily thrown in—things that spoke of neither arrival nor departure, but of uncertainty. He wasn’t sure if he was leaving something behind or preparing for an escape.
How had it come to this? The thought surfaced before he could stop it, heavy and unrelenting. He had asked himself the same question many times, but the answer always seemed too elusive—or too daunting—to pursue. To find it, he would have to follow the trails of bad choices and chance encounters, decisions made in desperation or carelessness. He wasn’t sure he had the courage to look that closely, to untangle the web that had slowly wrapped itself around his life.
He turned his attention back to the painting, its gaudy elegance mocking him. He wondered if the patron who had commissioned it would even notice the subtle imperfections he had left, the faint warping of reflections, the fruit teetering on the edge of overripeness. A quiet rebellion, almost invisible. It wasn’t much, but it was something.
His friends had once known him as someone who didn’t compromise. Elara would have scoffed at the idea of him bending to anyone’s expectations. Why paint at all if it isn’t your vision? she’d asked once, her voice sharp, her black coffee untouched beside her. Amei, on the other hand, might have smiled and said something cryptic about how all choices, even the wrong ones, led somewhere meaningful. And Darius—Lucien couldn’t imagine telling Darius. The thought of his disappointment was like a weight in his chest. It had been easier not to tell them at all, easier to let the years widen the distance between them. And yet, here he was, preparing to meet them again.
The clock on the far wall chimed softly, pulling him back to the present. It was getting late. Lucien walked to the suitcase and picked it up, its weight pulling slightly on his arm. Outside, the rain had started, tapping gently against the windowpanes. He slung the paint-streaked scarf around his neck and hesitated, glancing once more at the easel. The painting loomed there, unfinished, like so many things in his life. He thought about staying, about burying himself in the work until the world outside receded again. But he knew it wouldn’t help.
With a deep breath, Lucien stepped out into the rain, the suitcase rattling softly behind him. The café wasn’t far, but it felt like a journey he might not be ready to take.
In reply to: Quintessence: A Portrait in Reverse
Work in Progress: Character Timelines and Events
Matteo
- November 2024 (Reunion):
- Newly employed at the Sarah Bernhardt Café, started after its reopening.
- Writes the names of Lucien, Elara, Darius, and Amei in his notebook without understanding why.
- Acquires the bell from Les Reliques, drawn to it as if guided by an unseen force.
- Serves the group during the reunion, surprised to see all four together, though he knows them individually.
- Summer 2024 (Olympics):
- Working in a vineyard in southern France, nearing the end of the harvest season.
- Receives a call for a renovation job in Paris, which pulls him toward the city.
- Feels an intuitive connection to Paris, as if something is waiting for him there.
- Past Events (Implied):
- Matteo has a mysterious ability to sense patterns and connections in people’s lives.
- Has likely crossed paths with the group in unremarkable but meaningful ways before.
Darius
- November 2024 (Reunion):
- Arrives at the café, a wanderer who rarely stays in one place.
- Reflects on his time in India during the autumn and the philosophical journey it sparked.
- Brings with him an artifact that ties into his travels and personal story.
- Summer 2024 (Olympics):
- Living in Barcelona, sketching temples and engaging with a bohemian crowd.
- Prompted by a stranger to consider a trip to India, sparking curiosity and the seeds of his autumn journey.
- Begins to plan his travels, sensing that India is calling him for a reason he doesn’t yet understand.
- Past Events (Implied):
- Has a history of introducing enigmatic figures to the group, often leading to tension.
- His intense, nomadic lifestyle creates both fascination and distance between him and the others.
Elara
- November 2024 (Reunion):
- Travels from England to Paris to attend the reunion, balancing work and emotional hesitation.
- Still processing her mother’s passing and reflecting on their strained relationship.
- Finds comfort in the shared dynamics of the group but remains analytical about the events around the bell.
- Summer 2024 (Olympics):
- (was revealed to be a dream event) Attends a CERN conference in Geneva, immersed in intellectual debates and cutting-edge research. Receives news of her mother’s death in Montrouge, prompting a reflective journey to make funeral arrangements. Struggles with unresolved feelings about her mother but finds herself strangely at peace with the finality.
- Dreams of her mother’s death during a nap in Tuscany, a surreal merging of past and present that leaves her unsettled.
- Hears a bell’s clang, only to find Florian fixing a bell to the farmhouse gate. The sound pulls her further into introspection about her mother and her life choices.
- Mentors Florian, encouraging him to explore his creativity, paralleling her own evolving relationship with her chalk research.
- Past Events (Implied):
- Moved to Tuscany after retiring from academia, pursuing independent research on chalk.
- Fondly remembers the creative writing she once shared with the group, though it now feels like a distant chapter of her life.
- Had a close but occasionally challenging relationship with Lucien and Amei during their younger years.
- Values intellectual connections over emotional ones but is gradually learning to reconcile the two.
Lucien
- November 2024 (Reunion):
- Sends the letter that brings the group together at the café, though his intentions are unclear even to himself.
- In his Paris studio, struggles with an unfinished commissioned painting. Feels disconnected from his art and his sense of purpose.
- Packs a suitcase with sketchbooks and a bundle wrapped in linen, symbolizing his uncertainty—neither a complete departure nor a definitive arrival.
- Heads to the café in the rain, reluctant but compelled to reconnect with the group. Confronts his feelings of guilt and estrangement from the group.
- Summer 2024 (Olympics):
- Escapes Paris, overwhelmed by the crowds and noise of the Games, and travels to Lausanne.
- Reflects on his artistic block and the emotional weight of his distance from the group.
- Notices a sketch in his book of a doorway with a bell he doesn’t recall drawing, sparking vague recognition.
- Past Events (Implied):
- Once the emotional “anchor” of the group, he drifted apart after a falling-out or personal crisis.
- Feels a lingering sense of responsibility to reunite the group but struggles with his own vulnerabilities.
Amei
- November 2024 (Reunion):
- Joins the reunion at Lucien’s insistence, hesitant but curious about reconnecting with the group.
- Brings with her notebooks filled with fragments of stories and a quiet hope for resolution.
- Feels the weight of the group’s shared history but refrains from dwelling on it outwardly.
- Summer 2024 (Olympics):
- Recently moved into a smaller flat in London, downsizing after her daughter Tabitha left for university.
- Has a conversation with Tabitha about life and change, hinting at unresolved emotions about motherhood and independence.
- Tabitha jokes about Amei joining her in Goa, a suggestion Amei dismisses but secretly considers.
- Past Events (Implied):
- The last group meeting five years ago left her with lingering emotional scars.
- Maintains a deep but quiet connection to Lucien and shares a playful dynamic with Elara.
Tabitha (Amei’s Daughter)
- November 2024:
- Calls Amei to share snippets of her life, teasing her mother about her workaholic tendencies.
- Reflects on their relationship, noting Amei’s supportive but emotionally guarded nature.
- Summer 2024 (Olympics):
- Planning her autumn trip to Goa with friends, viewing it as a rite of passage.
- Discusses her mother’s habits with her peers, acknowledging Amei’s complexities while expressing affection.
- Past Events (Implied):
- Represents a bridge between Amei’s past and present, highlighting generational contrasts and continuities.
Key Threads and Patterns
- The Bell: Acts as a silent witness and instigator, threading its presence through pivotal moments in each character’s journey, whether directly or indirectly.
- Shared Histories: While each character grapples with personal struggles, their paths hint at intersections in the past, tied to unresolved tensions and shared experiences.
- Forward and Backward Motion: The narrative moves between the characters’ immediate challenges and the ripples of their past decisions, with the bell serving as a focal point for both.
