The dawn sun gently caressed the roof of the small stone house, where Jules had grown up surrounded by love and laughter. In a room with walls covered in childish drawings, the six-year-old boy opened his eyes, awakened by the first calls of morning birds. His world was still intact, a haven of peace bordered by the garden his mother tended with diligence.
Jules rose silently, knowing his parents were still asleep. He slipped on his worn slippers and limped toward the window, contemplating the flowers stretching under the first rays of sunlight. He loved this time of day, a suspended moment when everything seemed possible.
In the kitchen, the sound of a coffee maker starting up signaled that his mother was already awake. Lucille, with her constant smile and gentle way of scolding her children's mischief, crossed the room thinking about breakfast preparations. She glanced out the window and spotted Jules sitting in the grass, his tiny silhouette against the vastness of the sky.
"Jules! Breakfast is ready," she called in a warm voice.
The boy jumped up and ran toward the house, eager to return to the warmth of home. His father, Henri, joined him at the table, rubbing eyes still drowsy from long night dreams.
Breakfast was a feast of laughter and buttered toast, and over his cup of hot chocolate, Jules listened to the stories Henri told. His tales, always full of imagination with subtle lessons woven in, transported Jules far away to a world where heroes overcame flying sheep and friendly witches. For Jules, these moments were treasures, miracles of a dream childhood.
However, that morning, something fleeting passed through his father's gaze, a furtive shadow that escaped Jules' carefree notice. Lucille noticed it too and gently placed her hand on Henri's. Their eyes met in a silent exchange, full of promises and secrets.
A broken promise. A buried secret. But Jules was too young to understand, and far too happy to care. What he didn't yet see was that the foundations of his perfect world might soon begin to crack.
The hours passed, carrying away the morning's laughter. As the day progressed, Henri prepared to leave, pressed by professional obligations that Jules only vaguely understood. Sitting by the door, he gave his son one last affectionate look.
"You're already a little man, aren't you?" Henri whispered, tenderly tousling his son's hair.
Jules nodded proudly, certain that this phrase concealed a secret mission that only he knew about. In the quick embrace that followed, he didn't feel at all the pain of the farewell that was about to take root. He was unaware that Henri was deliberately walking into darkness, leaving behind the warm light of this home.
As the door closed, Jules returned to play, carried by his dreams of greatness and the vivid imagination he had inherited from his father. But in a corner of the room, Lucille, in silence, prayed for the days to come.