I can’t believe it will be Christmas soon. Has it really been six weeks already? Simone thought to herself.
When she had walked—or had it been run?—through that Door to escape the demon, it had been late June. Saturday, 23 June 1956, to be precise. Now it was still a Saturday, but it was 14 December 1985.
The Door had closed behind her, and what she now recognised as fear had taken over. She had run as fast as she could before the demon could follow her through.
She really should have looked where she was going.
If she had, she would never have met Claire.
More accurately, Claire would never have knocked her down after Simone had run straight out into the road in her desperate attempt to get as far away from the Door as possible.
That had been back in October—or at least that was what everyone had told her after she came to in hospital two days later.
Claire had been sitting at the end of her bed.
The poor woman had been terrified that Simone would die and that she would end up in prison for killing her.
Simone still remembered Claire's smile.
It reminded her so very much of Lucienne's.
Had she been wrong to tell Lucienne that she wanted them to remain just friends for the moment?
Perhaps.
Over the next few days, Claire had helped her in every way she could. She had even taken several days away from her work at the library just to make sure Simone was not left completely alone.
Simone had quickly decided that telling anyone she had fled through a mysterious Door to escape a demon would almost certainly result in her being sent to L'asile Sainte-Anne.
That was somewhere she had absolutely no intention of going.
So she had simply claimed that she could not remember what had happened.
“Zat is entirely understandable after a head injury,” the doctor had told her.
Simone had been relieved that everyone treating her spoke French.
The greatest surprise had come later that afternoon when Claire had asked what had brought her to Montréal in the first place.
She had tried very hard not to show how startled she was.
“I don't remember.”
“You sound so strange when you talk like that,” Claire had said gently.
“Like what?” Simone had asked.
“Like someone from an old film,” Claire had replied with a warm smile.
Simone had no idea what she meant.
It was simply the way she had always spoken.
What was so unusual about it?
Perhaps she had misunderstood Claire's question.
Maybe people in another country simply did not speak French in quite the same way.
Before Simone could ask, the doctor had returned and politely asked Claire to leave so his patient could get some rest.
Claire had promised she would be back the following morning.
The next day Simone awoke to hear two nurses talking quietly in fluent English outside her room.
“The mystery girl they brought in after she got hit by that car outside Notre-Dame,” one of them said.
Simone frowned.
She had been nowhere near Notre-Dame when Claire's car had struck her...
Had she?
“Yeah, she sounds really strange when she talks,” the first nurse continued.
“I know exactly what you mean,” the second replied with a laugh. “She sounds like somebody out of one of those old fifties films, not someone living in the nineteen-eighties.”
The nineteen-eighties?
What were they talking about?
It was 1956.
Wasn't it?
Later that morning, during his rounds, the doctor unknowingly answered the question that had been tormenting her.
“Well, ve believe ve 'ave finally located your records through the French Embassy,” he said with an encouraging smile. “It took rather longer zan expected. Ze fax vas so badly smudged zat it first appeared to say you were born in 1931.”
“Fax?” Simone asked uncertainly.
She had no idea what a fax was.
“Well, ve got zat sorted out after a telephone call,” the doctor continued. “From vat you told us when you first arrived, you believed yourself to be twenty-five years old. Ze embassy concluded zat ze 1931 record must belong to your mozzer, or perhaps some ozzer close relative. Zey've now updated your records to show your date of birth as 1960.”
Simone simply stared at him.
They had found her records.
Her records.
But they had decided they belonged to someone else.
They believed that the real Simone Delacroix standing before them was a young woman born in 1960, while the Simone Delacroix born in 1931 had somehow become her mother.
It made no sense whatsoever.
For the briefest moment she considered telling the doctor everything.
About the Door.
About the theatre.
About the demon.
But the thought of everyone believing she had completely lost her mind stopped her before she uttered a single word.
Instead, she merely nodded.
“Good,” the doctor said pleasantly. “Ve'll continue to monitor your recovery, but everyzing is looking very encouraging.”
As he continued with his morning rounds, Simone lay back against her pillow, staring at the ceiling.
How could this have happened?
Was this another trick of the demon?
Had it somehow changed the world around her?
Or...
Had she really travelled to another time?
The thought seemed impossible.
And yet nothing she had seen since arriving here made any more sense than that.
She spent the remainder of the morning trying to piece everything together, but every answer only seemed to raise more questions.
The people here were kind.
Far kinder than she had expected.
No one had treated her like a criminal.
No one had shouted at her.
No one had laughed at her confusion.
Especially Claire.
There was something about her that reminded Simone so very much of Lucienne.
Not because they looked alike.
They did not.
It was something gentler than that.
The kindness in her smile.
The concern in her eyes.
The way she always seemed to think of someone else before herself.
By the time Claire returned that afternoon, Simone found herself genuinely pleased to see her.
“I've got some good news for you,” Claire announced with an excited smile as she entered the room.
“What news?” Simone asked.
“You're getting out of here tomorrow.”
“I 'ave nowhere to go,” Simone admitted quietly.
Claire pulled a chair over to the bedside and sat down.
“The doctor told me all your belongings disappeared after the accident, so I've been thinking about what you could do.”
“And?”
“I think I've found the answer.”
Simone felt a sudden knot of anxiety.
“What is your solution?”
“Well...” Claire began, sounding almost embarrassed. “I was wondering whether you'd stay with me until your memory comes back.”
Simone stared at her.
“I cannot do zat.”
“Yes, you can.”
Claire leaned forward earnestly.
“I mean... if I hadn't hit you with my car, you'd still have your memory. You'd know where all your things are. The very least I can do is help you get back on your feet.”
Simone remained silent.
“And...” Claire added with an apologetic smile, “maybe I can help you stop sounding like you've just stepped out of an old film.”
Despite herself, Simone felt the corners of her mouth lift into a faint smile.
Claire smiled back immediately.
“There it is,” she said softly. “I was beginning to wonder if I'd ever see you smile.”
For reasons Simone could not fully explain, she trusted her.
She still had no idea how she had arrived in this strange future.
She still feared the demon might somehow find her again.
But Claire...
Claire had never once asked for anything in return.
She had simply helped.
Slowly, Simone nodded.
Claire's face lit up.
“Oh, that's wonderful!” she exclaimed. “I've always wanted a roommate.”
Simone found herself laughing quietly.
It was the first genuine laugh she had managed since stepping through the Door.
Five weeks had passed since then.
Simone stood by the apartment window, looking out across Montréal.
The city had once seemed impossibly strange.
Now, somehow, it had begun to feel like home.
The French Embassy had eventually issued her with a new passport.
The officials there had simply refused to believe that the birth record they had first located could possibly belong to the young woman standing before them.
The Simone Delacroix born in 1931, they had concluded, must have been her mother.
After all, the woman standing in front of them could not possibly have been fifty-four years old.
Once that assumption had been made, everything else had followed surprisingly quickly.
Within days she possessed a new identity.
At least...
A new official identity.
