A bottle of whisky sat on the coffee table untouched, the vinyl record lay comfortably inside the gramophone. They shouted and laughed; the flag of the Resistance flew over the Parisian sky; Sigma watched the last German soldier flee from the landscape. His blurred vision could barely distinguish shapes - all he could hear was his own rapid breaths among thousands of voices chanting “Vive la résistance”.

Extreme pain. Dizziness. Heartbeats. Heartbeats. Heartbeats…

Jacques recognised Sigma by his blonde hair when visiting Hôtel-Dieu the day after. The painter, now with his right sleeve hollow, glimpsed at his visitor and pulled a faint smile. Jacques gently put a rose bouquet on his bedside table.

“You forgot our promise?” Sigma asked, his tone a bit disappointed.

“Sorry, but the whisky has to wait now, Tyler.”