Showing results by author "Fabienne Paquin" in All Categories

She used to believe clarity came with stillness. A well-framed shot. A quiet room. A moment unblurred by motion or noise. But lately, even stillness felt like something that could turn on her. Moments flickered and fractured—light spilling too bright through Venetian blinds, elevator doors that didn’t close fast enough, the feeling that someone was watching from just outside the lens. She told herself it was burnout—a long stretch of deadlines and forgotten lunches. But somewhere beneath that—buried under caffeine and bravado—was something she hadn’t named. Miami had seemed like...

Solía creer que la claridad venía con la quietud. Una toma bien encuadrada. Una habitación tranquila. Un momento no borroso por el movimiento o el ruido. Pero últimamente, incluso la quietud se sentía como algo que podía volverse contra ella. Los momentos parpadearon y se fracturaron: la luz se derramaba demasiado a través de las persianas venecianas, las puertas de los ascensores que no se cerraban lo suficientemente rápido, la sensación de que alguien estaba mirando desde afuera de la lente. Se dijo a sí misma que era agotamiento, un largo período de plazos y almuerzos ...

Elle croyait autrefois que la clarté venait avec l'immobilité. Un cadrage soigné. Une pièce silencieuse. Un moment non brouillé par le mouvement ou le bruit. Mais ces derniers temps, même l'immobilité lui semblait capable de se retourner contre elle. Les instants vacillaient, se fracturaient — la lumière trop vive filtrant à travers les stores vénitiens, les portes d’ascenseur qui ne se fermaient pas assez vite, la sensation que quelqu’un l’observait juste en dehors du champ. Elle se disait que c’était l’épuisement — une longue série de délais à respecter et de ...

En algún lugar cerca de la autopista 24 de EE. UU., Cedar Key Ya no corrió, no realmente. Iba a la deriva. Desde pueblos fronterizos hasta moteles de matorrales. Lugares donde el polvo no hacía preguntas. Lugares sin torres de telefonía móvil, sin conexiones, sin ruido. Solo viento. Solo tiempo. No eligió Florida. Nunca eligió la mayoría de los lugares. La Oficina le había dado cinco nombres y tres conjuntos de coordenadas. Todo temporal. Todo tranquilo. Escogió el más alejado del hormigón, el más cercano al agua. Ni metro, ni trenes, ni skyline. Solo arena, mosquitos y un ...

Somewhere off U.S. Highway 24—Cedar Key He didn’t run anymore — not really. He drifted. From border towns to scrubland motels. Places where the dust didn’t ask questions. Places with no cell towers, no connections, no noise. Just wind. Just time. He didn’t choose Florida. He never chose most places. The Bureau had given him five names and three sets of coordinates. All temporary. All quiet. He picked the one furthest from the concrete, closest to the water. No metro, no trains, no skyline. Just sand, mosquitoes, and a weather-beaten RV park that smelled like salt and rust after a ...

Ella no había nacido. Había sido hecha, no por la fuerza, ni por el destino, sino por elección. Elián no fue convocado por el destino ni sacado de la antigua profecía. Nació porque dos mujeres, Rochelle y Emily, confiaron en su conexión, siguieron algo inexplicable y pusieron su fe en algo más grande que ellas mismas. Rochelle, portadora de la Piedra. Emily, guardiana del Cristal Y una última pieza, la Esquirla, que se mantuvo en silencio hasta que fue necesaria. Cuando los tres se juntaron, Elián emergió. No era un recuerdo ni un fantasma, aunque había vivido como tal, medio ...

She hadn’t been born. She had been made—not by force, not by fate, but by choice. Elian was not summoned by destiny or pulled from ancient prophecy. She came into being because two women—Rochelle and Emily—trusted their connection, followed something unexplainable, and placed their faith in something greater than themselves. Rochelle, bearer of the Stone. Emily, keeper of the Crystal And a final piece—the Shard, held in silence until it was needed. When the three came together, Elian emerged. She wasn’t a memory or a ghost, though she had lived like one—half-there, watching, ...

Dos mujeres. Dos mundos. Dos hombres, cada uno llamado Juan. Y un perro, Escritor, que nunca fue realmente solo un perro. En un mundo, Emily camina descalza a través de la arena de Florida calentada por el sol. Le habla a las estrellas. Su John construye futuros a partir de los rayos solares, y Writer lo observa todo con un conocimiento silencioso. Un cristal palpita suavemente bajo su almohada. En otra, Rochelle se mueve entre manzanos en la niebla de Normandía. Escribe cartas que nadie lee, habla a las sombras y su Juan repara lo que la tierra olvida. El escritor corre por el huerto y ...

Two women. Two worlds. Two men — each called John. And a dog, Writer, who was never truly just a dog. In one world, Emily walks barefoot through sun-warmed Florida sand. She speaks to stars. Her John builds futures from solar beams, and Writer watches everything with quiet knowing. A crystal pulses softly beneath her pillow. In another, Rochelle moves between apple trees in the Normandy mist. She writes letters no one reads, speaks to shadows, and her John repairs what the land forgets. Writer runs through the orchard and listens to the earth. A smooth stone sleeps in her coat pocket. ...

Las estrellas sobre Cedar Key habían estado en silencio durante semanas, su brillo habitual apagado por la neblina de las tormentas recientes, tanto cósmicas como terrestres. La paz, largamente anhelada y duramente ganada, se había asentado sobre la ciudad. Emily, John y Writer habían regresado no solo como sobrevivientes, sino como guardianes. Su vínculo era inquebrantable ahora, sus roles más profundos que antes. Pero la paz nunca duró. Todo comenzó una noche con Writer. El perro se despertó de su sueño bajo el porche sobre pilotes de su cabaña costera. Sus ojos dorados, que ...

Ya estaban de vuelta, pero la voz de la piedra aún resonaba en la mente de Rochelle, no como sonido, sino como ritmo. Como memoria. En cada lugar por el que habían caminado, cada historia que habían despertado se había doblado silenciosamente en la piedra. Y la piedra, a su vez, se había doblado en ella. Ya no lideraba. Escuchó. Y en su tranquilo calor, oyó que se formaba algo, no una orden, sino una promesa: La historia no ha terminado. La luz que llevas no es solo memoria. Es el hilo que une lo que fue con lo que aún puede llegar a ser. Todavía no sabían dónde se doblaría el ...

The stars above Cedar Key had been quiet for weeks, their usual shimmer dulled by the haze of recent storms, both cosmic and earthly. Peace, long craved and hard-won, had settled over the town. Emily, John, and Writer had returned not just as survivors but as guardians. Their bond was unbreakable now, their roles deeper than before. But peace never lasted. It began one night with Writer. The dog stirred from sleep beneath the stilted porch of their coastal cottage. His golden eyes, once merely intelligent, now shimmered faintly with the same energy as the Veilstone. He tilted his head, ears...

It began with a stone. Not Ancient, Not Marked, Just there, Half buried in the cold sand, glowing faintly like it knew it had been seen. Rochelle wasn’t looking for anything. She was walking to clear her head, the way you do when life gets too loud. A wind-swept beach. A stretch of grey sky. The silence made you feel both small and alive. That’s all she wanted. Then the Stone Warm to the touch, like I had a pulse. Gold veining through it, alive in a way rock shouldn’t be. She picked it up, and the world moved, Shifted, unlatched. And just like that, Rochelle wasn’t in Normandie ...

It began with a stone. Not Ancient, Not Marked, Just there, Half buried in the cold sand, glowing faintly like it knew it had been seen. Rochelle wasn’t looking for anything. She was walking to clear her head, the way you do when life gets too loud. A wind-swept beach. A stretch of grey sky. The silence made you feel both small and alive. That’s all she wanted. Then the Stone Warm to the touch, like I had a pulse. Gold veining through it, alive in a way rock shouldn’t be. She picked it up, and the world moved, Shifted, unlatched. And just like that, Rochelle wasn’t in Normandie ...

They were back now, but the stone’s voice still echoed in Rochelle’s mind — not as sound, but as rhythm. As memory. At every place they had walked, every story they had awakened had folded itself quietly into the stone. And the stone, in turn, had folded itself into her. It no longer led. It listened. And in its quiet warmth, she heard something forming — not a command, but a promise: The story is not finished. The light you carry is not only memory. It is the thread that binds what was to what may still become. They did not know yet where the next road would bend or what sleeping ...

El susurro bajo las mareas Mucho antes de que Emily encontrara el cristal, antes de que Cedar Key conociera otra cosa que las mareas y el silencio, dormía. Bajo la sal y la piedra, en una fisura velada por el coral y el tiempo, la Piedra del Velo palpitaba débilmente, no con luz, sino con memoria. Recordaba el nacimiento de las estrellas. Recordaba la muerte de las estrellas. Recordó la traición que lo selló. Nunca fue para un solo mundo. Tuvo muchos nombres a lo largo del tiempo, la mayoría de los cuales ahora se han perdido. Pero para aquellos que recordaban, que realmente ...

The Whisper Beneath the Tides Long before Emily ever found the crystal—before Cedar Key knew anything but tides and silence—it slept. Beneath salt and stone, in a fissure veiled by coral and time, the Veilstone pulsed faintly, not with light, but with memory. It remembered stars being born. It remembered stars dying. It remembered the betrayal that sealed it away. It was never meant for one world. It had many names over time—most of which are now lost. But to those who remembered, truly remembered, it was never just a crystal. It was the Veilstone: a key woven from the threads between...

The crystal had never been silent—not truly. Even after the chaos, after the sacrifices, its presence lingered like a pulse beneath the surface of the world. Emily could still feel it sometimes, even when the skies were calm and the roads quiet. A warmth. A whisper. A warning. They had survived the first storm. They had seen what the crystal could do—what it could awaken. But survival was never the end. It was only the beginning. In the corners of distant worlds, others had felt its awakening. Forces ancient and patient. Watchers. Hunters. Seekers of power. The kind who would tear apart...

Long before Emily touched the crystal, it watched. It had no eyes, no breath, no name that human tongues could speak—but it was alive. Forged in the dying light of a forgotten star, the crystal had passed through galaxies, through hands both divine and damned. It had kindled civilizations and ended empires. And always, it waited—quiet, patient, eternal. Now, it lay buried beneath tangled mangroves and the sleepy tides of Cedar Key, wrapped in centuries of silence. But the silence was never emptiness. It was a memory. It was a promise. The world had called it many things—a relic, ...

De vuelta a casa En algún lugar entre las mareas de la memoria y la atracción del destino, una piedra esperaba. Rochelle estaba descalza en el parque de casas rodantes en Cedar Key, Florida, con la cálida brisa del Golfo enredando su cabello rubio. En la palma de su mano, acunaba la piedra de Normandía, lisa y ovalada, desgastada por siglos de mar y sal. La llevó de Normandía a Florida... Esa era la verdad... Tal vez los llevó a aventuras extraordinarias... Ahora está aquí, cálido y resplandeciente. John la observaba desde los escalones de su autocaravana, con una taza de café ...