There was no emergency call. No gunshots. No screams.
Just a child’s voice… and a tattoo.
And that was enough to make the police officer freeze, as if the whole world had just stopped spinning.
Bastien Moreau was making his morning rounds in the Croix-Rousse district of Lyon when he felt a light touch on his leg. He looked down and saw a child, no more than four years old, watching him with a seriousness disconcerting for his age, almost with reverence.
The boy wasn’t looking at the uniform. Or the badge. Or the radio.
He stared intently at Bastien’s right forearm.
—Tell me, sir… my dad had the same one.
The boy’s finger pointed to the Breton triskelion etched on his skin. Bastien’s chest tightened.
That tattoo wasn’t common. It wasn’t a design you saw everywhere. And, above all, it wasn’t something he’d seen many times in his life.
Actually, I only knew one other person with that exact drawing.
His twin brother.
Étienne.
Five years without speaking. Five years of pride as hard as stone. A fight so violent that Bastien no longer even knew where Étienne lived, whether he was still in Lyon or had gone who knows where.
Bastien crouched down to get to the boy’s level.
—What’s your name, champ?
—Leo—said the boy as if it were the most obvious thing in the world—. I live there… with Mrs. Sylvie.
He pointed to an ochre building that Bastien immediately recognized: the municipal children’s home.
Bastien’s heart began to beat wildly.
A child in foster care. A home. And a tattoo he only shared with his brother.
He tried to keep his voice steady.
—Tell me, Leo… what was your dad like? Do you remember?
Leo nodded enthusiastically.
—Yes. He was tall, like you. He had brown hair… and green eyes. But then he became strange. He forgot things. Mom cried a lot.
A lump formed in Bastien’s throat.
Green eyes. Brown hair. Tall.
Étienne.
It was as if the child were describing a mirror to her.
—And your parents, where are they now?
Leo lowered his gaze, as if searching for the answer on the sidewalk.
—I don’t know. Mrs. Sylvie says my dad disappeared… and that Mom can’t take care of me right now, but that she’s coming back. She promised.
At that moment, a woman in her fifties arrived hurriedly, with a worried expression.
—Leo! How many times have I told you not to stray from the sidewalk?
Then he looked at Bastien suspiciously, protecting the child.
—Excuse him, officer. It’s very curious.
Bastien saw his ID, his firm posture, the way he took the little boy’s hand.
Sylvie Dubois. Home Director.
“It’s nothing,” Bastien said. “We were just talking.”
Léo clung to Bastien’s arm like a treasure.
—Mrs. Sylvie, look… the gentleman has the same tattoo as my dad.
Sylvie looked at the tattoo.
And she paled. She immediately squeezed Léo’s hand, as if everything had suddenly become dangerous.
—We’re leaving, Leo. Right now.
Bastien joined.
—Wait, please. I… can I ask you a few questions about your father? Perhaps I can help.
Sylvie stared at him. Suspicious, yes, but with an old weariness in her eyes, the weariness of someone who has heard too many broken promises.
—Do you know anyone with that tattoo?
—Maybe my brother. He has the same one. We haven’t spoken in years.
Sylvie took a deep breath.
—What is your brother’s name?
—Étienne Moreau.
She slowly released her breath, as if she had been holding it in for months.
Leo, oblivious to the tension, was playing with a stone.
—Come with me—she finally said. —We need to talk.
Inside the house, everything was simple but clean, tidy with care and discipline. Sylvie led Bastien to a small study and closed the door, leaving Léo playing outside with other children.
—Sit down.
Bastien obeyed, with that strange feeling that precedes a moment capable of changing your life.
—Léo has been with us for two years —Sylvie began—. We found him alone, crying, in Bellecour Square. He didn’t know where he lived. He just kept repeating one name: Étienne.
Bastien’s stomach froze.
—And your mother?
—She arrived a few days later. A young woman, very thin, who looked like she hadn’t slept in weeks. She said she couldn’t take care of him at the moment, that it was temporary. Since then, she calls once a month… always from different phone booths. She asks if Léo is eating well, if he’s growing… but when I ask her when she’ll come to get him, she hangs up.
Bastien ran his hand through his hair.
—And Etienne?
Sylvie opened a drawer and took out a file.
“According to her, Étienne disappeared months before leaving the child. She said he was different… confused. That sometimes he didn’t recognize people. Not even his own house.”
The world collapsed on Bastien.
—Why didn’t I know anything?
Sylvie stared at him.
“Because they were angry, Agent Moreau. And frankly… pride sometimes causes more damage than an accident.”
He paused.
—Also, he left a photo.
He took out a small, worn photograph. Bastien took it carefully.
It was Étienne. Thinner, with longer hair. Beside him, a pretty young brunette woman held a baby. Étienne was smiling… but his gaze was empty.
“She is Élise,” said Sylvie. “And that baby is Léo.”
Bastien’s hands began to tremble.
—He’s my brother. There’s no doubt about it. We’re twins.
Sylvie was silent for a moment.
—So tell me… why did you stop talking to each other?
The question reopened an old wound.
—When our mother died, she left us a house and some savings. Étienne wanted to sell it. I wanted to keep it… it was all we had left of her. The argument escalated. We said horrible things to each other. We even came to blows.
—And while you were fighting… your nephew was growing up here.
The word nephew hit him like a punch.
—I have to find my brother.
Bastien stood up.
“Slowly,” Sylvie said. “First, Leo. There are papers, procedures, checks.”
—I know. What do I have to do?
—Prove the kinship. Find Étienne. And talk to Élise.
—How can I contact her?
—Call on the first Sunday of every month, at two o’clock in the afternoon. It’s early.
That night, Bastien ransacked his entire house. He found birth certificates, old photos, and one in particular: him and Étienne on the day they got their tattoos, at eighteen years old.
The next day he asked for time off and began searching like someone who feels time is running out. Civil registry. Hospitals. Archives.
Until the truth fell upon him:
Étienne had been hospitalized in Marseille three years earlier. Motorcycle accident. Two months of hospitalization.
Bastien drove to Marseille.
“It was very sad,” a nurse told her. “He spent weeks in a coma. When he woke up, he didn’t recognize anyone. A young pregnant woman came every day… she cried because he didn’t know who she was.”
Élise.
Back in Lyon, Bastien returned home. Léo ran to hug his legs.
—Mrs. Sylvie says you know my dad.
—Yes, champ. Your dad and I were very good friends.
—Then why isn’t he coming?
The question hurt.
—I’m looking for him.
Leo smiled.
—I know how to wait. The truth is, sometimes good things take time, but they do come.
Before Bastien left, Léo pulled him by the shirt.
—When you find him, tell him I still remember our song.
And she sang it.
It was the lullaby that Bastien and Étienne had invented when they were children.
Even with a shattered memory, that had survived…
Following clues, Bastien arrived in Aix-en-Provence. Workshops. Photos of reminiscing.
“Milo?” said an old man. “Yes, a good mechanic. A bit absentminded sometimes. He left… I think he’s in Arles.”
Arles welcomed him, beautiful and terrifying at the same time.
A small blue house. A small vegetable garden.
—Étienne… —said Bastien.
The man raised his head.
—I… know you, right? Or did I dream you?
—I’m Bastien. Your brother.
“There’s a Bastien in my nightmares,” she murmured. “Screaming… fighting.”
Bastien showed the tattoo.
—We did it together.
—I know I have it… but I don’t remember when.
—Étienne… you have a son. His name is Léo.
Étienne turned pale.
—I dream about him… the doctor said they were hallucinations.
—They are not.
Étienne sat down, defeated.
“I left because I was afraid,” she confessed. “Waking up with no memory… it was suffocating me.”
“Then you’re not alone anymore,” Bastien said. “Let’s try it together.”
They returned to Lyon. On Sunday, at two o’clock, the phone rang.
—You lived in a blue house—Bastien said to Élise—. And you sang her a lullaby we made up as children.
Silence.
“Where is Etienne?” she asked, crying.
—Here, with me.
They talked for almost an hour. When he hung up, Étienne was exhausted, but alive.
“He’s coming,” he said. “He wants to understand.”
The following week, Élise arrived. Tired. Strong.
When Léo saw Étienne, he said without hesitation:
—You are the lord of my dreams.
—And you, my child.
—Are you my dad?
-Yes my love.
—Why did you take so long?
—Because I was lost… but I found you.
Leo hugged Bastien.
—Uncle Bastien is a hero. He brought my dad back.
Then came real life: therapy, fears, new memories.
A year later, Léo drew a picture of the whole family. They all had the same tattoo on their arm.
“Why does everyone have it?” Bastien asked.
Leo responded with the wisdom that only children possess:
—Because it’s our family brand. So we never get lost again.
And Bastien understood, at last:
Sometimes, a family is not rebuilt by remembering the past.
It is rebuilt by choosing itself every day, in the present.
