In the Village of Viger

A quiet riverside village clings to its old timber houses, the gentle slope of St. Joseph’s steeple and the rustle of beech groves still marking the rhythm of everyday life. The mill that once ground the locals’ grain has long been silent, and the children spend their afternoons tossing frogs and rolling stones into the forgotten gold‑pit, unaware that the city’s street‑cars already hum on the horizon. The inevitable sprawl is felt in the distant glow of gas‑lamps and the steady trickle of new foundations appearing where vacant lots once lay.

Into this world a perfectly square, gum‑coloured house springs up almost overnight, its windows and doors hinting at a stranger who will soon make it a home. Madame Laroque watches with a mix of curiosity and anxiety as a trim, gray‑clad milliner finally steps out onto the platform, her apron scattering crumbs for the birds. Her arrival promises fresh stitches in the village’s fabric, even as the old countryside whispers that change is already turning the page.