La maison de Claudine

The story opens in a sprawling, slightly crooked house that leans against a steep lane, its double steps uneven and its façade darkened by time. Around it, a tangled garden bursts with aubergines, tomatoes, apricots and a tangle of vines that seem to hold the memory of past summers. Inside, rooms are described with the weight of old iron locks and a bell that once rang like a lonely orphanage chime. The narration paints the place as both solid and haunted, a living museum of scent, light and forgotten laughter.

At the heart of this setting stands a mother, small yet round, who roams the courtyard calling, “Where are the children?” Her voice echoes off the walls, stirring the wind and the overgrown foliage, yet only silence returns. The narrative hints at a hidden absence, a mystery that haunts the house and its garden, as if the children have slipped away into the very leaves. The reader is drawn into a quiet search, feeling the tension between the beauty of the surroundings and the unsettling emptiness left behind.