Person.
Nothing but the inner courtyard of my building, in the Bouffay neighborhood, and the facade of the neighbor across the street. I’m frozen. Then, my gaze falls to the ground. A shadow. A notebook. No, the notebook. Fallen to the ground. I pick it up. A sheet of paper sticks out.
A birth certificate. Clémence D. , born on August 17, 1981, Hôtel-Dieu Hospital, Nantes. Mother: unknown .
An erased past
I sit down, my palms sweating. This date. This first name. I search my memory like one searches an old attic, in the dust of memories. And suddenly, an image emerges.
I’m 17. I’m scared. A hospital room. A crying baby. My mother next to me, stern. “It’ll be better for everyone,” she’d said. They didn’t even let me kiss her. They took her away. I shut myself away.
I buried everything.
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