Curiosity nudged him past good sense. He booked a ticket to the city where the cafe once stood. The brick building, boarded and ivy-strangled, still carried the Café Lumière sign, faded but stubborn. Inside the dark room, dust made halos in the sunlight. On a splintered table lay a small, battered film reel with “MIDNIGHT” written in smudged ink. His hands trembled as if the past had been waiting for him to call.
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