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In Lyon, even taking food from a trash bin was theft.
And for boys like Julien — boys old enough to carry a gun — getting caught meant forced labor.
Or worse.
So he moved carefully.
Street to street.
Avoiding patrols. Avoiding the light of the lamps.
Those eyes that watched from windows.
If they saw you — really saw you — you had one option:
Run.
Disappear for a day. Two.
Or die.
He made it to the German street.
Immediately, the scent hit him — bread, fresh and golden.
Perfume, too. Flowers.
Cologne — sharp, masculine. Familiar in a way that made your chest tighten.
He spotted a broom.
Left behind by a street sweeper, probably by accident.
Julien picked it up. Whispered a promise to return it.
That broom fed someone. He knew that.
So he became that man.
The sweeper.
The invisible.
He brushed the sidewalk with care, inching closer to the back alley of a café.
He remembered its name, even now: Dawn.
Because that’s what it became for him that day — a begi He swept like he meant it. Quiet. Focused. Until he was right there — at the trash bins. Inside — treasure. Cream still clinging to paper. Burned flatbread — still edible. A bottle of syrup, almost empty. Add water — you’d have something sweet. Enough to survive. He filled his coat. His pockets. A makeshift satchel. And then — he saw it. A door, slightly open. Bread. Real bread. Still warm, cooling near the kitchen. Fresh loaves, cooling near the kitchen. He hadn’t seen bread like that in months. And no — he hadn’t pla But this day… this day was sacred. He didn’t plan it. Didn’t think. Just moved. Grabbed three loaves — turned— The whistle. In Lyon, a whistle meant one thing: Labor camp. They were already chasing him. German boots pounding behind. He ran. He ran like he’d never run before. Thin. Fast. Sharp around corners. But for how long? Twenty minutes. Maybe more. He turned onto a narrow street. Rue des Hirondelles. The Street of Swallows — once rich, now a passage between two worlds — the German districts and the poorest ghettos. He ducked into a building. Breath ragged. Heart like thunder. And then — a voice. A girl’s voice. “Did you bring them here?” He turned. No one there. Then he looked up. And saw her. He would never forget that moment. Because in that window, for the first time, he saw her. The girl who, one day, would become his begi Adèle. ⸻
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