The sun rose over Paris like it was trying to apologize.
There was still tension, yes.
Still questions.
But now there was something else.
Expectation.
By seven in the morning, people were already moving.
Not marching, not shouting simply moving. Walking toward the Élysée Palace.
Toward the square where yesterday, a soldier had stood and said something that hadn't been said in years: "France isn't dead."
That soldier was Étienne Moreau.
Inside the Élysée, the atmosphere was restrained.
A formal ceremony was never really designed to accommodate hope.
Hope was messy.
But today it mattered.
Moreau stood inside the small side chamber with Renaud and General Beauchamp.
He had dressed carefully.
Not because he wanted to look important but because he knew what this moment would mean to those outside.
Every wrinkle in his uniform would become a symbol, every gesture remembered.
"You sure about this uniform?" Renaud asked, trying to adjust Moreau's collar.
