The sun dipped behind the barracks as they arrived back at base.
Moreau when arrived in this body was confused, resentful, and out of place.
Now, as he stood there again, the place felt ho and silent.
As if it too knew this was goodbye.
Renaud waited near the car, giving him a nod. "You sure you want to do the rounds alone?"
Moreau nodded. "Yeah. You go pack up. I'll et you later."
Renaud raised a hand in mock salute, then wandered off with a whistle in his throat and dust on his boots.
Moreau turned toward the main building, climbed the steps, and walked down the familiar hallway to a door he'd passed a thousand tis.
He knocked once.
"Co in," ca the voice.
Colonel Perrin sat behind his desk, a half-written mo in front of him, his reading glasses tilted down his nose.
When he looked up and saw Moreau, he didn't look surprised just tired, and maybe a little proud.
"You're not here for more paperwork, I hope," Perrin said.
"God, no," Moreau smirked. "I ca to say thank you."
Perrin leaned back in his chair, resting his hands across his chest. "It's a funny thing, Capitaine. When I approved your transfer here, I was told you were too loud, too opinionated, too reckless for your own good. And I thought maybe we needed that."
"And did we?"
"You proved right," Perrin said, and there was no sarcasm in his tone. "Even when it got ugly. Especially then."
Moreau stepped further into the room, eyes scanning the piles of papers.
He'd spent more hours here being yelled at, warned, guided, or defended than anywhere else.
"I'm being transferred to Paris," Moreau said. "Official. General Beauchamp made it clear it's not temporary."
Perrin nodded slowly. "Then I suppose it's ti."
"I'm not sure I'm ready."
Perrin chuckled. "No one ever is. Paris isn't like Verdun. There's no mud on your boots but plenty on your na if you're not careful."
"Sounds about right," Moreau said.
The colonel opened a drawer and pulled out a bottle of wine, old, dusty, the cork half-crumbling. "I was saving this for sothing… not sure what. But I think tonight qualifies."
He poured two glasses, handed one to Moreau, and held his up.
"To those who didn't stay silent," he said.
They drank.
Perrin sat down again, staring at the map of France on the far wall. "I lost more friends in 1917 than I can na. But the worst part isn't that they died. It's that the country they died for is still being carved up by cowards who hide behind gold buttons and wine cellars."
"That's why I'm going," Moreau said.
"I know. That's why I let you go." Perrin stood and walked to him. "But if it ever gets too much, if you ever wonder whether it's worth it co back here. I'll still be here. Probably buried in paperwork."
Moreau smiled faintly. "I'll keep that in mind."
They shook hands, and this ti it lingered.
"Take care of Renaud," Perrin said quietly. "That idiot's brave, but he'd run headfirst into a train if he thought you were in front of it."
Moreau laughed. "He's my shadow. He knows it."
"And Capitaine..." Perrin paused. "Don't forget who you are. Paris has a way of trying to mold n into shapes that don't fit their souls."
"I've already lived one life trying to be soone else. I won't make that mistake again."
Perrin gave him a final nod. "Then go. Before I get sentintal."
Moreau turned for the door, but paused. "You did more than you had to, sir. For . For this base. I won't forget that."
Perrin didn't reply. He just watched him go, a tired look in his eyes.
The officer's ss was quieter than usual, the chatter reduced to a few muttered conversations and clinking glasses.
Major Clént sat at a corner table, bottle already half-finished, eyes low until Moreau entered.
He stood up and grinned. "I was wondering when the famous Capitaine would grace with his farewell."
Moreau chuckled. "I figured you'd be half-drunk by now."
"Three-quarters, actually." Clént poured him a glass without asking. "Sit. Drink. One last ti."
They clinked glasses.
"I heard Paris is calling," Clént said. "Your na's going to be a curse and a hymn before long."
"I'll settle for sothing between," Moreau replied.
Clént leaned forward. "You know, I hated your guts. Thought you were arrogant, dangerous...too smart for your own good."
"You weren't wrong."
"But you were right about one thing," Clént said. "This army? It needs shaking. I just didn't think you'd be the one to do it."
"And now?"
Clént gave a small smile. "Now I'm proud to say I know you."
There was a beat of silence.
Clént downed his glass. "Paris will try to break you. You know that."
"I'm counting on it," Moreau said. "Makes it more satisfying when I don't let it."
The major laughed, loud and clear. "Go, then. Wreck so chairs. Just don't forget we're still rooting for you back here."
They drank deep into the night, trading stories, jabs, laughter the kind only shared between n who have survived battles together, even if the battles weren't always on the sa side.
And when the bottle was finally empty, and the hour too late to pretend it was anything but goodbye, they stood.
Clént extended his hand. "For France."
Moreau shook it firmly. "For those who still believe."
They parted with no promises, no oaths. Just quiet understanding.
Back at the quarters, Moreau found Renaud snoring on his bunk, one boot off, the other still hanging from his foot.
Moreau smiled, kicked the bunk leg gently.
"We leave at dawn, Soilder."
Renaud grunted. "I was dreaming about Paris cafés…"
"You'll get your café. You'll also get your hell."
Renaud rolled over. "Sounds about right."
Moreau sat down on his own bed, looking around the room once more the cracked wall, the dusted windows, the locker he once punched after a shouting match with Clént.
And he felt sothing.
Not grief.
Not nostalgia.
Just readiness.
Because the world outside was calling.
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