On a quiet Tuesday morning, Julien met Camille in the courtyard of the Louvre. The glass pyramid glittered under a pale sun.
“I found one more discrepancy,” she said. “A painting in the Richelieu wing. Its accession date was changed twice.”
“Same pattern?”
“No. This one is older. 1987.”
Julien nodded. “Then we keep looking.”
She smiled. “I thought you’d say that.”
They walked into the museum together, two figures small against the vast stone facade, carrying the weight of the past — and the determination not to let it be rewritten.