Léna Morel tightened her navy wool coat around her. The thick, rough fabric offered comfort against the sea wind's biting grip. She had belted it with a thin brown leather strap that cinched her waist with elegance. The metal buttons caught the dull light of this late autumn day, and a soft, almost familiar scent lingered on the garment—something between sea air and the nostalgic charm of old Deauville. She folded the sleeves back slightly at the wrists, an unconscious gesture she often made.

  Deauville, in this season, was nearly deserted. The Normandy coast, stripped of its summer promises, stood still in a sweet, melancholic haze. The once colorful beach huts stood deserted, aligned in silence like props from a forgotten movie set. Grand hotels, which had once welcomed elegant crowds with polished suitcases and vacation smiles, were reduced to faded facades, their golden lettering slowly flaking, worn by salt and time. Deauville's elegance lingered further down the promenade, but here, in this quiet part of town, time seemed suspended.

  Wet leaves littered the cobbled path climbing toward the heights of the city. There, beyond the last houses, stood the old building she had come to explore: a palace from the early twentieth century, now transformed into a luxury hotel.

  Léna was in Deauville to inventory the hotel's antique pieces ahead of an auction. Assignments like this had become her specialty over the years—a role between archivist and investigator. The notice had appeared unexpectedly in her professional inbox, and it had piqued her interest immediately. It was in throwing herself into such unpredictable projects that she always felt most like herself, hands in the dust, eyes scanning for forgotten details.

  The name of the place, above all, had stirred her curiosity: Le Palais des Vents. Her great-grandmother had once mentioned it in one of her many journals, among a list of holiday retreats. That was reason enough for Léna to accept the job.

  Out of season, the hotel hosted only a handful of wealthy guests. As she approached, Léna observed the building with a mix of fascination, reverence, and curiosity. Majestically perched on the hilltop, it defied time, its pale fa?ade facing the wind and its art deco glasswork still intact. Only an almost too-perfect stillness betrayed the season's low attendance.

  A cream-colored vintage car was parked outside the entrance, a subtle nod to the hotel's glorious past. Léna climbed the steps of the porch. A weathered copper plaque bore the hotel's name, which she traced gently with her fingertips before pushing open the door.

  A soft warmth enveloped her at once. The air smelled of old wood, dried flowers, and hearth smoke. The antique parquet creaked only slightly beneath her feet, muffled by a Persian rug. The high ceiling, adorned with fine moldings, still bore the traces of its former grandeur. The walls, draped in garnet velvet, gave the room an intimate, almost theatrical feel. At the center, a crystal chandelier cast a gentle, flickering light.

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  Behind a polished mahogany counter, a receptionist looked up from his register as she approached.

  "Miss Morel?" he asked, his voice calm.

  She nodded, slowly unwinding her scarf.

  "Welcome to le Palais des Vents. Monsieur Léandre asked me to give you this."

  He handed her an old-fashioned key, attached to a leather keychain embossed with the hotel's name.

  "Suite 107," he added. "Sea view, as agreed. Monsieur Léandre will receive you in the small lounge at 5 p.m. In the meantime, everything has been prepared for your stay. Please don't hesitate if you need anything."

  Léna thanked him. She had only exchanged a few emails with Monsieur Léandre—brief, precise messages written in elegant language. He had included no photo, no personal details. All she knew was that he had owned the hotel for over twenty years, a discreet man known for his taste in rare objects and his stubborn refusal to part with any of them without knowing their story. He had written that the building had once been the epicenter of high society soirées, where politicians and artists mingled. The 1910s and 1920s had drifted by, woven with scandals and hushed laughter.

  She let herself be absorbed by the surroundings for a moment. A vintage phonograph played a jazz melody from the thirties. To the left, a ginger cat was curled up asleep on a velvet olive-green armchair, undisturbed by the discreet movements of the staff. She felt her heartbeat slow. This was exactly the kind of place where objects held memory, the kind of place where the walls seemed to whisper.

  Léna politely declined the receptionist's offer to carry her suitcase and took the spiral staircase. Silence reigned in the upper floors, broken only by the creak of old wood.

  Suite 107 was at the end of the hallway. She slid the heavy key into the lock and turned it with deliberate care.

  Despite the rain, a pale light filtered through the tall ivory drapes, brushing against the blond wood floor and the antique furniture. The main room, spacious and warm, featured a four-poster bed draped in white linen, framed by carved walnut nightstands topped with opaline lamps. In one corner stood a charming little dressing table with a mirror, and by the window, a mustard-yellow velvet armchair and a round table invited reading. A crystal carafe, two glasses, a notebook, and an old photograph had been carefully arranged. Every object seemed placed with thoughtful intention.

  Léna set her suitcase at the foot of the bed, removed her coat, and sank into the armchair. She was fascinated. Each object seemed steeped in history, and though she was here for work, she felt as though her presence disturbed the quiet harmony.

  The photograph on the round table, framed in tarnished silver, caught her attention. It showed three women in long dresses, posing on a hotel terrace with the sea behind them.

  The setting seemed oddly familiar. The woman on the far left wore a cameo brooch that Léna could have sworn she'd seen as a child, in her great-grandmother's jewelry box.

  She reached for the notebook beside it, bound in soft leather. On the first page, written in elegant but nervous handwriting, was a name. She read it aloud:

  "Gabriel d'Alen?on."

  A faint vibration rippled the water in the carafe.

  Léna told herself it was only the wind.