I. The Invitation
The envelope was black, sealed with golden wax. Inside, two lines:
"Present yourself Friday at 8 p.m. Dressed in black. Ask no questions."
I had never replied to a message so fast in my life. Three words: "I will come." No exclamation mark. I had already understood.
On Friday, at 7:45, I was at the foot of the building. Black suit. Black shirt. No tie — the envelope had not specified, and when in doubt I chose silence.
At 7:59, I rang. Not a second too early. Not a second too late.
The door opened without a sound. She stood at the end of the hallway, motionless, in a long burgundy velvet dress. She did not smile at me. She did not look at me.
"Come forward. Slowly. And look at the floor."
I walked. Four steps. Five. Six. When I was a meter from her, she said, very softly:
"Now, kneel."
I bent the first knee. Then the second. My palms, without being told, settled on my thighs. My chin, without being told, dropped.
And for the first time in my life, I felt I was exactly where I was meant to be.