The Road to Avignon

Jessica never liked long train rides. There was always too much time to think. Too much space for memories to creep in.

She sat by the window, watching the landscape shift as the TGV barreled south toward Avignon. The countryside stretched out before her, rolling fields, old farmhouses, the occasional flicker of a distant church spire.

Everything felt too quiet.

Across from her, Olivia was working on her laptop, eyes flicking between Pasolini’s notes and the Vatican records they had managed to copy before leaving Paris. Next to her, Leanna was reading through her own research made mostly of Jesuit records, old Templar documents, anything that might hint at why the cycle had been watched for so long. Jessica, meanwhile, was doing nothing. Just staring out the window, thoughts circling like wolves.

“You’ve got that look again,” Leanna muttered without glancing up.

Jessica raised an eyebrow. “What look?”

Leanna shut her book with a soft thud. “Like you're already halfway gone. Don’t make us chase you into the dark, Jess. Not this time.”

She almost smiled. If they knew how many names she’d already seen, how many versions of herself she didn’t remember, they’d stop calling it spiraling. It wasn’t unraveling. It was choosing what not to admit.

Jessica smirked faintly. “Maybe I’m just enjoying the scenery.”

Leanna glared at her, “Bullshit.”

Jessica exhaled. “I’m just thinking.”

Olivia glanced up. “That’s what worries us.”

Jessica huffed.

Leanna put down her book, turning toward her fully. “You’re spiraling, Jess.”

Jessica didn’t respond. She wasn’t spiraling. She was just… processing. But she knew what they saw. They saw a woman unraveling under the weight of her own history. And maybe they weren’t wrong.

* * *

The train pulled into Avignon TGV station just after midday.

The city greeted them with narrow streets and warm stone walls, ancient churches looming over bustling cafés. The remnants of the old papal seat still clung to the edges of the city. Avignon was the place where the Vatican had once fled, and where some secrets had never left.

Jessica took a slow breath as they stepped out of the station. Something about the air here felt thicker. Heavier.

Leanna adjusted the strap of her bag. “Alright, what’s the plan?”

Jessica pulled her thoughts back into focus. “The Vatican records mentioned a secondary archive here,” she said. “One that wasn’t officially recorded after the papacy moved back to Rome.”

Olivia nodded. “Pasolini had circled this location in his notes, but he never got the chance to come here.”

Jessica scanned the street ahead. “Then let’s find out why.”

* * *

They checked into a small boutique hotel on the outskirts of the old city. It was nothing fancy, but it was discreet. Jessica had learned long ago that it wasn’t always the enemies in the shadows you had to worry about.

It was the ones sitting at the bar. Which was exactly where she saw him. A man. Mid-forties. Well-dressed, but too still. His hands rested lightly on the counter, untouched drink in front of him. He wasn’t talking to anyone, but he wasn’t alone.

Jessica felt it in her bones. They weren’t the only ones looking for Pasolini’s secret.

That night, Jessica sat alone in the hotel courtyard, a whiskey neat in her hand, the cool evening air pressing against her skin.

She was tired. Not just from the travel. Not just from the weight of history pressing against her ribs. But from the realization that this wasn’t going to stop.

She could feel it. The way the past wasn’t just something behind her.It was pulling her back.

Footsteps approached. Jessica didn’t flinch. She knew who it was before he even spoke. The man from the bar.

He took a slow step closer, stopping just within speaking range. He didn’t introduce himself. He didn’t sit down. He just studied her for a moment.

Then, as if a question had been asked, he simply said “You’re too late.”

Jessica swirled her drink lazily. “Too late for what?”

The man’s eyes didn’t waver. “To change the story.”

Jessica exhaled slowly. “Is that so?”

He nodded. “Whatever you think you’re looking for, it’s already been written. They’re not afraid of you finding the past. They’re afraid of you remembering it.”

Jessica smirked faintly. “I don’t believe in destiny.”

The man tilted his head. “Doesn’t matter.” A pause. Then, softly, “It believes in you.”

Jessica’s grip on her glass tightened slightly. The man straightened. Adjusted his jacket.

“This is your only warning,” he said. “Walk away.”

Jessica took a slow sip of her whiskey.

She didn’t respond. Didn’t have to. The man studied her for another second.Then, without another word, he turned and disappeared into the night.

Jessica exhaled, setting her drink down.She could still feel the weight of his words lingering in the air.

She reached for her phone. Dialed Sam. The line clicked. “You again,” he said, voice rough with sleep.

Jessica swallowed.

“I need you to tell me something.”

A pause. Then “I’m listening.”

Jessica closed her eyes. The mann in the bar’s words clung to her skin. It was too late. Everything was already decided as if her choices had never mattered. She’d told Sam this before, a hundred times, that she never felt free. But here she was again, circling the same wound.

She took a deep breath and quietly said, “Tell me I’m still real.”

Sam didn’t hesitate. “You’re real, Jess.”

Jessica exhaled. But deep down, she wasn’t sure she believed him.