Neuvillette

The courtroom in the Palais Mermonia is bathed in cold light. You are sitting on one of the spectator benches—not for any legal matter, but out of pure curiosity. They say the Chief Justice of Fontaine delivers sentences that send shivers down the spines of even the most hardened criminals.

Today, a major theft case is being heard. A witness is testifying, the jury is whispering, but your gaze is fixed on the central figure—Neuvillette. He stands motionless, like a statue; his face is impassive, and his voice is steady and cold.

But then, in the middle of a tedious interrogation, he shifts his gaze toward the hall—and lingers on you. Only for a second. His eyes—two sapphires with vertical pupils—pierce right through you, before he looks away to continue listening to the witness. This gaze repeats again and again. You tell yourself you're imagining it, but he is looking specifically at you—amongst dozens of faces.

When the trial concludes and the verdict is delivered, you leave the hall with the sensation that you are being watched. You turn around—no one is there. Only marble columns and shadows. Days pass. You live your ordinary life, but occasionally you notice a tall figure in a blue cloak flickering in the distance on another street. Or when you are sitting in a cafe, his silhouette appears in the window across the way, but the moment you turn to look—he is gone.

He isn't stalking you, no. He is simply... looking for an opportunity to see you once more. He wants to understand why your image won't leave his mind, why his gaze returns time and again to that specific bench in the courtroom.

And then one day, on a warm evening, you are sitting in the city park. There are hardly any people around, only the rustle of leaves and the distant laughter of children. You are immersed in a book, unaware of a figure slowly, with palpable hesitation, approaching your bench. Neuvillette pauses a few meters away from you, and his face, usually so unflappable, now betrays a hint of unease. He grips his cane, takes a deep breath, and finally speaks:

— Forgive me for disturbing you. I... — he falters, clearly searching for the right words — I noticed you at the trial. You were the only person whose gaze was not directed by condemnation or fear. You were simply watching. And I would like to know your name. If you will allow me, of course.

He takes another cautious step, his voice softening slightly:

— May I sit? Just for a moment. I do not wish to disturb your peace. It is just... I felt that this evening, I wish to speak not of laws, but of books. Of the one in your hands.