Reincarnated: Vive La France-Chapter 294: To family. To the ones who teach us how to be human before the world tries to make us gods.

The Renault slowed as it turned onto Rue des Lilas.

The streetlamps along the narrow Lyon street made it even more beautiful.

Inside the car, Étienne Moreau exhaled and closed his eyes briefly.

A heavy feeling one have when crossing a line between two worlds the world of chambers and borders and nations, and the world where tasty soup and childhood still ring in corners.

As the car came to a stop, the front door swung open before the driver could even step out.

His brother, now nearly thirteen, taller, leaner, but with the same reckless speed in his limbs.

He didn’t hesitate.

The door was barely open before he yanked it wider.

"Étienne!"

Moreau stepped out, the cold Lyon air biting through his coat. "You’ve grown another kilometer," he said with a laugh, bracing himself as the boy wrapped him in a full-bodied hug that nearly lifted him off the ground.

"You missed Christmas," the boy huffed, punching his shoulder lightly. "You promised last year."

"I brought chocolates to compensate," Moreau said, reaching back into the car and pulling a small parcel. "Imported. Belgian."

Renaud stepped out next, dusting snow from his sleeves. "No hug for me? I feel neglected."

"I don’t hug fascists," the boy replied with a wicked grin.

"That’s slander," Renaud sniffed. "I’m merely charmingly authoritarian."

Moreau ruffled his brother’s hair and they all stepped toward the house.

The iron gate was still slightly rusty, the old oak still stood like a sentry.

Nothing had moved, except time.

His mother was waiting in the doorway, apron dusted with flour, cheeks flushed from the stove.

When her eyes landed on Étienne.

"You cut your hair shorter," she said.

"I lead a country now, Mama. I can’t look like a jazz pianist."

"You could still smile more. People like that."

He stepped forward, and she wrapped her arms around him, murmuring, "You’ve gotten thinner."

"Busy year."

Behind her, his father stood with a quiet dignity, pipe unlit in one hand, watching them with a kind of reverence not for the man his son had become, but for the fact that he had come at all.

"Papa."

"President Moreau," his father said, extending a hand with a smirk.

Étienne laughed and shook it. "Don’t start that nonsense."

Inside, the house smelled of rosemary, baking bread, and caramelizing onions.

The radio made noise softly in the background.

Renaud wandered straight to the dining room. "Table’s already set. Either you expected us, or you’ve developed psychic powers."

His mother wiped her hands. "It’s New Year’s Eve. Of course I set the table."

His brother ran ahead, grabbing a folded paper hat and slapping it onto Étienne’s head. "You have to wear it."

Étienne raised an eyebrow. "I command five million men."

"You command nothing here."

He chuckled and left the hat on.

Dinner was slow, full of familiar dishes duck à l’orange, warm potatoes with parsley, little glasses of red wine filled and refilled.

They sat around the table the way they had for years, as if the world outside did not quake and realign itself daily.

There was laughter, moments of loud talk over each other, and long pauses to simply enjoy the comfort of being near.

"You’re on the radio all the time now," his brother said, mouth half-full. "You sounded mad last week."

"Parliament makes everyone sound mad," Étienne replied.

His mother scolded lightly. "Don’t talk politics tonight."

His father interjected with a chuckle. "Let the man defend his own speeches."

"I don’t want to defend anything tonight," Étienne said, raising his glass. "I want to toast."

They all quieted.

"To family. To the ones who teach us how to be human before the world tries to make us gods."

His father raised an eyebrow. "That’s more poetic than presidential."

"I still remember how," Étienne said, and they drank.

Later, dessert came a pear tart, slightly overbaked at the edges but still perfect in its familiarity.

His mother insisted on seconds.

His brother lit sparklers on the windowsill, declaring it "the people’s fireworks."

At one point, Renaud leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling.

"You know," he said, "I never thought I’d spend the last night of the year eating tart with the Head of State of France."

"Stop chewing with your mouth open," Moreau replied.

"Some habits endure even under dictatorship."

Laughter again, loud and rich.

But the room grew quieter as the hour grew later.

They came to the sitting room, where the old grandfather clock ticked solemnly.

Étienne sat by the fire, his brother curled against his side with a blanket.

His mother knitted slowly.

His father read an old copy of Le Figaro.

Renaud dozed on the couch, wineglass half-full, head tilted back.

For a moment, no one spoke.

"I had a dream last week," his brother said softly. "You were flying. Like, actually flying. But your uniform was made of paper. And it kept tearing."

Étienne looked down at him. "And what happened?"

"You landed in our garden. And you didn’t say anything. You just slept."

Silence followed.

"That sounds about right," Étienne murmured.

His mother looked over, her eyes sharp despite the soft voice. "You’re not sleeping, are you?" 𝑓𝓇𝘦ℯ𝘸𝘦𝑏𝓃𝑜𝘷ℯ𝑙.𝑐𝑜𝓂

"I sleep enough."

"You look pale."

"Everyone looks pale in winter."

"You look... far away."

He didn’t answer.

His father turned a page in his paper.

"There are things I can’t explain," Étienne said finally. "Not here. Not now. But they weigh on you. Even when you’re home."

His mother reached across the armrest and took his hand gently.

"We don’t ask you to explain. We just ask you to come back when you can."

He squeezed her hand.

His brother yawned. "Can I stay up ’til midnight?"

His mother shook her head. "You’ll fall asleep by eleven."

"I’ll defy fate."

"Then you’ll be the first one to do so."

They all smiled.

As the minutes ticked closer to midnight, the radio announcer’s voice grew livelier, recounting the major events of the year from the Paris-Madrid accord to the new reforms in agriculture and the record snowfall in Normandy.

Moreau listened, but his eyes stayed on the fire.

He could feel the distance between him and this world growing, like a rope being pulled slowly through his hands.

Yet he also knew, in a way he didn’t need to explain, that this home was what made everything else bearable.

When the bells began to chime at midnight, they rose.

"Ten seconds," Renaud called. "Nine... eight..."

His brother clutched his hand.

"Seven..."

His mother smiled, eyes already glistening.

"Six... five..."

His father even set down the paper.

"Four... three..."

Sparklers were lit again.

"Two... one..."

And then cheers.

Loud and joyful.

The small room filled with kisses on cheeks, tight embraces, and the simple miracle of still being together.

"Bonne année!" his mother cried, hugging him fiercely.

His father clapped his back. "Another year survived."

Renaud raised his glass. "To the mad ones who haven’t lost themselves."

Étienne kissed the top of his brother’s head.

"To memory," he whispered. "And to what it protects."