In the name of love

Your short story will involve at least one dead person. It will include the following words: a Belgian hundred franc note, a stopwatch, a fountain pen, an envelope, and a nail. One of these items will be the murder weapon.

She had been found, seated, in her beige and white striped wingback chair. Her nose was powdered, and her nails were painted red. She was beautiful. Madame Huguette, however, was dead. Her body had slightly slumped to the side, and her shawl had slipped from her frail shoulders. It lay in a bundle at the foot of the chair, like a sleeping cat.

Benjamin had been called around nine o'clock by the nursing staff at the nursing home. He had dropped his coffee that he was carrying through the streets of Uccle and had run as if it were possible to catch destiny. He didn't understand. The oncologist who had been treating his mother's last words had been more than reassuring. He had even talked about regression; it made no sense.

From the window of the small room, there was a beautiful clear view of the park. Benjamin let himself be momentarily captivated by the dance of a tall willow swaying in the autumn breeze. His gaze tenderly landed on the walls cluttered with photo frames. Snapshots of life. His smile and that of Lili, his only daughter. The image was a bit blurry. On the desk, a Cartier white gold fountain pen rested like a treasure in its crimson case. His attention stopped on what seemed to be an envelope, placed against the elegant wooden stand of the Scrabble timer. He approached. The mail was sealed. He effortlessly recognised his mother's neat handwriting but was intrigued by the name of the recipient. Who could be this Emilio sweetheart, sweetheart ? The scent of lilies of the valley interrupted his thoughts. The nurse informed him that the on-call doctor was waiting for him at the reception. He would escort him, if he wished, to the chapel where his mother had been transferred.

Lili had no classes today. She had woken up early and, as usual, had affectionately tapped on the glass of the terrarium in search of a sign. Frida seemed to be asleep, nestled under a piece of bark. Maybe she was still sulking? Since she had taken away her companion, the frog had been acting like she was dead. The young girl had brought them back from London; she had put all her savings into it. At first, it was their metallic orange color that had fascinated her, and their name that was scary: "Phyllobates terribles." And then she had gotten to know them. Frida didn't like to be alone, but Lili had no choice. To make amends, she had promised her that soon she would take her for real. Over there. In her lost paradise. That soon, she would be free.

"- Mr. Legrand, hello. We spoke on the phone this morning; I'm the doctor who issued the death certificate for your mother. My condolences again."

Benjamin shook the outstretched hand and checked out of the corner of his eye if his daughter had arrived. He had urgently asked her to join him but had refrained from announcing his grandmother's death to her by text message. She had said "OK, :I" followed by "nothing serious?". He didn't know what to reply.

The doctor invited him with a gesture to sit in front of him and continued:

"– As I mentioned, it is undoubtedly a heart attack that caused your mother's death. The side effects of the last chemotherapy session could explain the weakening of her heart. I'm sorry."

Benjamin thought that death was a sore loser. He then saw Lili passing through the double automatic doors. The entrance hall was quiet, and apart from the wheels of a cart and the footsteps of his teenager on the tiles, the silence was oppressive. He realized that, despite himself, he was going to witness a turning point. The kind that, with a word, propels us from ignorance to the cruel truth that life will never be the same again.

Lili hadn't shed a tear, but she had lowered her head, letting her hair invade her face, out of modesty perhaps. The young girl, as thin as a nail in her oversized black sweater, was a nature's mystery. So delicate, so fragile. Innocent. She seemed to live in another sphere, probably closer to the clouds than to any sidewalk.

"- Do you have a hundred bucks? Shall I get you a coffee? With milk?"

Benjamin was not surprised. She probably needed some space, that solitude that nourished her. He would have liked to tell her that he loved her. That he would always be there. But it was complicated. So he handed her a hundred Belgian francs and let his gaze speak for him.

Lili inserted the slightly crumpled bill into the machine and watched the cardboard cup fall. Held by two large clamps, it was now trapped in this small glass vault. Frida's companion, on the other hand, hadn't been strangled. The young girl had put him to sleep before gently scraping the skin on his back. She had collected enough toxin to kill a jaguar. But granny wasn't a feline. Just a silly goose. In love. A goose in full parade, gushing about Emilio here and Emilio there. She "had endless dreams and a fierce desire to make a few of them come true"*. Emilio and Jacques Brel had turned her head. It had to stop.

The machine sputtered milk powder into the cup. Hot steam filled the chamber. Grandma must have felt burns too. After licking the envelope, before her heart stopped. At the thought, Lili pouted. It was she who had suggested to her grandmother the idea of writing her correspondence on laid paper. Her wild dreams of taking Emilio through the streets of Paris, those of Madrid and Rome. And then she had suddenly realized that love drove you crazy. That it gave you back your twenties. And that this romance was a threat. The threat that her inheritance would evaporate, vanish on the cobblestones of the great cities of Europe. And with it, her promises. Colombia, the expedition to return Frida to her kind, to find her Emilio. She had sworn to her.