Vivienne and Mirelle Part 2
Vivienne and Mirelle Part 2: The Message
Discovered three days after Mirelle disappeared. Not by accident. Not in haste. Left where only someone like Vivienne would find it—and only if she was looking.
It was a quiet evening. No appointments. No meetings. The Ravenwood’s operations ran smoothly below. But Vivienne wasn’t there.
She was upstairs—in her private residence atop the hotel, lights dimmed, gloves off, combing out her hair like she hadn’t since that night.
The hidden panel in the armrest clicked open beneath her fingers—automatic, familiar. She wasn’t reaching for anything.
And yet there it was.
A piece of silk, small and torn, tucked neatly inside. Pale cream. Familiar. Not perfumed. Not folded like a lover’s keepsake—folded like intel.
Vivienne stared at it for a moment, not touching. As if picking it up would confirm what she already knew.
It was from Mirelle.
There was a stitch along the hem. Barely visible—unless the light hit just right. A pattern Vivienne recognized. Threaded in tight: a cipher.
No encryption. No deception. Just a message.
Hand-stitched. Intimate. Final.
You never asked me to stay
I stayed anyway.
That’s on me.
I learned more than I should have.
That’s on you.
—M.
No name. No return path. No signal trace.
Just the signature—a single letter. Deliberate. Knowing. Irrevocable.
Vivienne sat back. She didn’t speak. She didn’t call Omalley. She didn’t pour a drink.
She just held the silk in one hand—light as a promise, sharp as memory—and breathed.
Then, slowly, she folded it. Once. Twice. Again.
Slid it into the same hidden compartment. Closed it.
And walked to the console.
That night, the Ravenwood played no broadcasts. No vinyl.
Just analog static—quiet, constant.
And she did leave the lights on when she went to bed.
Addendum to Part 2:
A professional assessment. A personal breach.
Hours later, Vivienne sat at her desk with the silk unfolded on the surface.
She wasn’t reading the message again—she was analyzing the stitch.
She ran it through three filters. Checked the thread’s weave density. Logged the cipher angle. All habitual. All precise.
And then she stopped.
Not because she was done.
Because she realized she was trying to turn grief into intel.
And there was no dossier in Sky Port Bury that would ever explain why she let Mirelle in.
She closed the file without saving. Walked away.
Some knowledge didn’t belong in archives.
Vivienne and Mirelle Part 2
Vivienne and Mirelle Part 2: The Message
Discovered three days after Mirelle disappeared. Not by accident. Not in haste. Left where only someone like Vivienne would find it—and only if she was looking.
It was a quiet evening. No appointments. No meetings. The Ravenwood’s operations ran smoothly below. But Vivienne wasn’t there.
She was upstairs—in her private residence atop the hotel, lights dimmed, gloves off, combing out her hair like she hadn’t since that night.
The hidden panel in the armrest clicked open beneath her fingers—automatic, familiar. She wasn’t reaching for anything.
And yet there it was.
A piece of silk, small and torn, tucked neatly inside. Pale cream. Familiar. Not perfumed. Not folded like a lover’s keepsake—folded like intel.
Vivienne stared at it for a moment, not touching. As if picking it up would confirm what she already knew.
It was from Mirelle.
There was a stitch along the hem. Barely visible—unless the light hit just right. A pattern Vivienne recognized. Threaded in tight: a cipher.
No encryption. No deception. Just a message.
Hand-stitched. Intimate. Final.
You never asked me to stay
I stayed anyway.
That’s on me.
I learned more than I should have.
That’s on you.
—M.
No name. No return path. No signal trace.
Just the signature—a single letter. Deliberate. Knowing. Irrevocable.
Vivienne sat back. She didn’t speak. She didn’t call Omalley. She didn’t pour a drink.
She just held the silk in one hand—light as a promise, sharp as memory—and breathed.
Then, slowly, she folded it. Once. Twice. Again.
Slid it into the same hidden compartment. Closed it.
And walked to the console.
That night, the Ravenwood played no broadcasts. No vinyl.
Just analog static—quiet, constant.
And she did leave the lights on when she went to bed.
Addendum to Part 2:
A professional assessment. A personal breach.
Hours later, Vivienne sat at her desk with the silk unfolded on the surface.
She wasn’t reading the message again—she was analyzing the stitch.
She ran it through three filters. Checked the thread’s weave density. Logged the cipher angle. All habitual. All precise.
And then she stopped.
Not because she was done.
Because she realized she was trying to turn grief into intel.
And there was no dossier in Sky Port Bury that would ever explain why she let Mirelle in.
She closed the file without saving. Walked away.
Some knowledge didn’t belong in archives.