MOTION

I

The small cafe in Strasbourg sat nestled on a cobblestone street, its facade draped with ivy that spilled over the ornate wrought iron balcony. Window boxes overflowed with vibrant red geraniums, their petals catching the rising sun's golden rays. Soft strains of Edith Piaf's "La Vie en Rose" drifted out from within, mingling with the tantalizing aroma of freshly baked croissants and rich espresso.

Stepping inside was like entering a cozy sanctuary away from the bustling city outside. The interior was a charming assortment of mismatched antique furniture, each telling its own Parisian history story. The walls were adorned with vintage posters advertising long-forgotten cabarets and art exhibitions, adding to the cafe's timeless appeal.

The patrons huddled at quaint bistro tables, their conversations blending with the melodic chatter of clinking porcelain cups. A weathered barista, his face etched with the lines of countless stories, worked behind an intricately carved wooden counter, expertly crafting each espresso with a touch of his soul. His hands moved with practiced grace, a dance born of years of experience and love for his craft. The delicate hiss of steam and the rich aroma of freshly ground coffee beans filled the air as he worked, a symphony that played out daily in this hidden gem of a cafe, inviting all who entered to be part of its timeless tale.

Among the patrons sat a young woman, her dark hair cascading in loose waves around her shoulders. Her eyes, concealed behind a pair of tinted sunglasses, gazed out the window with a mix of curiosity and longing. She sipped her espresso slowly, the rich flavor a bittersweet reminder of the world outside the cafe. There was a sadness in her eyes, a yearning that seemed to echo through the ages.

She saw a young mother’s face, looking into a pram with a melted look of glee and exhaustion. Her fingers tore off a small piece of croissant and carefully fed it to the young toddler, amazed at the look in her baby’s eyes as his palette encountered flavors it’d never experienced before. Behind her sat a man, carefully reading the newspaper while sipping a lukewarm cup of tea.

Every so often, the two of them casually glanced at the young woman but paid her no mind.

Sitting there, Rose's impatience grew with each passing second. She had risen early, ignoring the stiffness in her body, and hurried from her Paris hotel to this small cafe to meet Julien. Her eyes darted around, finally settling on a man in the corner of the cafe, his baseball cap pulled low to avoid recognition. His back was turned to the entrance, a clear sign of his desire to remain unnoticed.

Rose stood and walked over, noticing that Julien’s eyes were closed. She rolled her eyes while approaching him. She swallowed her annoyance, needing his attention for as long as she could keep it enticed.

His eyes opened as if he sensed her coming close to him, and he glanced at his watch. She slipped into the chair across from him with her coffee as he did.

“Ouais?” he spoke as she appeared before him.

“Julien, hard to notice you when you’re undercover,” she growled at him, her impatience palpable. Patience was not a virtue bestowed upon her when the good Lord handed them out, and she ensured he knew it, her voice laced with a hint of frustration and a touch of sarcasm.

“Yes, well. Hard to be peaceful when you are the cause célèbre. Rose, so nice to see you. I must get the coffee first, and then you can tell me about this dream thing.” The man known as FLAMBERGE flashed a smile — though as Rose looked into his eyes, she saw a struggle in them that weighed upon the young triple-crown winner heavily. She studied for a moment but couldn’t quite figure it out. Nonetheless, the young man — more cheerful than she’d ever known him to be — slipped away to the counter.

“Fine,” she muttered, her impatience seeping through her words. “Just make me wait longer.”

There may have been another virtue or two that Rose was simply not blessed with more of. Who could tell?

II

In a quaint village, there is an older man named Rolande Leclerc. He woke up at dawn for the same job he’d held for over forty years — gardener. As he dressed, brushed his teeth, and made himself a cup of the blackest coffee a man had ever had, he went through the places he was to visit on this day. As he reviewed the places on the list, he noticed a place he had once visited as a kid but had not since. Little did he know, this place held a mystery that would soon unravel.

He looked at the address for another moment, memories and thoughts taking over the priority of what he was supposed to be doing — heading to his first job. The scent of the coffee, the feel of the cool morning air on his skin, and the sound of birds chirping in the distance all added to the nostalgia that washed over him. He shoves the thoughts (and memories) back into the vault they’d previously been in and exits his house before driving to the other side of town. The first job he worked was tedious and mundane, but it was the house of a widow who paid him handsomely.

The second job was a commercial building that required more time pulling weeds than doing anything that he would’ve preferred doing — pruning bushes or caring for flowers. He packaged the weeds in a black trash bag and placed it in a dumpster.

Before his third job, he stopped at a local diner, a place that held many memories for him, and gossiped with two other older men with whom he played dominoes on the weekend. They shared stories of their youth, laughed at old jokes, and debated about the latest village news. After a few minutes of chatting, he drank a quick cup of coffee and had to be on his way. His third job was the largest of his day as he had to plant a few flowerbeds and carefully manicure the lawn so the owner was sure not to call him to complain (spoiler: he would that evening — never satisfied).

Then Rolande made his way to his fourth job, the one with the address he recognized when he was a child. As he walked upon the dilapidated building, remembering precisely as it was when he was a young boy, he wondered why someone would want him to care for this property. The place was a relic of his childhood, with its creaking floorboards and faded wallpaper. As he searched through the rolodex of memories of living in this village, he’d never remembered anyone living here. If anything, and he remembered it well, it was known for being haunted. As a young boy, he was confident he’d heard noises that he couldn’t explain — the voices of his mother and father, but not as the mother and father as he knew at that time. Instead, they seemed older, wanting his attention, but Rolande was too scared and ran home, where his mother scolded him for going to said house.

As he worked on the property, cutting it, pulling out the weeds, and pruning back the bushes, he worked up quite a sweat. After an hour and change, he decided to take a quick break. He walked over to his work truck and pulled out a bottle of water, half of which ended up in his stomach.

As he turned around to admire his handiwork, he was met with a sight that took his breath away. The rundown building he had been working on had transformed into a majestic church, its spires reaching for the sky. He stood there, stunned, unable to comprehend the transformation that had taken place before his eyes.

III

“So, I had this very lifelike dream about two months ago. I was in a village with people everywhere going about their days. Then, a woman approached me and whispered words into my ears. She spoke them to me in French, and it took me a while — and some help — to figure out what the words mean, which has led me to… you.”

The words spilled out of Rose’s mouth when Julien returned to the table—literally, the moment. Julien looked at Rose, deep concern worn on his face, as he sat down with his coffee and a pear and camembert creation he’d been craving for the past twenty minutes.

"Rose, do you ever engage in the small talk in your country? Like asking the 'how are you' or talking about your latest match? So direct…someone who just achieved a major victory such as yours could be celebrating, not focusing on...les endroits minces.”

Julien was right. Rose should have been ecstatic, but when their eyes met, it was clear there was no room for celebration. Instead, she seemed as determined as she did moments before her match against O'Neill. Seeing this side of Rose made Julien wonder if they had more in common than he had initially thought.

"Yeah, yeah," she muttered. "I won. Big deal. About fucking time." The last word exploded from her lips more forcefully than intended, causing a mother at a nearby table to look over in shock. Rose rolled her eyes and dismissed the woman's judgmental gaze. Julien’s eyes narrow, studying.

“The winning, it doesn’t excite you?”

Rose leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms defensively. "Of course I am. It felt amazing in the moment. But I have other things on my mind, Julien. Things I need your help with."

Taking a sip of his scalding hot coffee, Julien met the gaze of the "Second Coming" across from him. He absolutely burned his tongue, but only the sharpest of pupil-dilating-readers might guess it. "I may be able to help you with the winning. I know what losing the matches you thought you should win is like. We could talk about that too if you want." Ow, his tongue, he wishes he could share. He had briefly considered being a confidant in the locker room earlier, but it’s a pool he feels he should only tip his toes into at this point. If the water is as hot as this coffee - hard pass.

But he looked into Rose's eyes, filled with anger and resentment - ‘holy shit, that is quite a bit’ he thought, and he considered dropping to the ground and rolling away before no-selling the scalding of the roof of his mouth.

“Look, I appreciate it, Mr. Neck Collector. You went on your little winning streak last year. Won the Universal Championship at Colossus. Dominated War Games even. Pat yourself on the back. But if I don’t get the answers to my questions, they will gnaw on me like a dog with a bone in its mouth. I can’t focus on anything else without that.”

Rose tried to soften her face — she really did, but her frustration and determination were written all over her face. So when Julien took a bite of a mouthwatering pear and camembert creation he must have picked up before she arrived and leaned forward, motioning for Rose to do the same, she reluctantly obliged and placed her hands on the table. She eyed him warily; Julien would describe the look as batshit crazy as he put his hands on top of hers.

"You want to talk about your dreams and research? Go ahead, dear Rose. I'm listening. And I'll share any insight or advice I can offer."

After some hesitation, Rose dropped her head and defenses, opening up to Julien about every detail of her dreams and research for almost an hour.

IV

Rolande looked at the majestic church before him, lost as to why he’d never seen it there before. He ran through his memories frantically as he glared at it, hoping to make sense of it all. Moments before, he’d remembered the rundown building being there, but that was no longer in his memories. Instead, the rundown building was replaced by the majestic church. After a few more moments, Rolande could not remember what he was thinking about — the church was now a permanent mark in his memory.

Rolande stood there, perplexed, as the church loomed over him with its intricate stonework and stained glass windows. The sunlight streamed through the colorful panes, casting a mosaic of light on the ground at his feet. With a sense of unease creeping into his mind, he cautiously stepped forward, the door to the church creaking open as if beckoning him inside. As he crossed the threshold, a wave of cold air washed over him, sending a shiver down his spine. The interior was grander than the exterior, with vaulted ceilings and flickering candlelight creating dancing shadows along the walls. Rolande felt a strange pull drawing him deeper into the sacred space, his footsteps echoing in the vast emptiness. And as he wandered further into the church, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched, that unseen eyes were following his every move.

The air grew heavy around him, thick with an otherworldly presence that made his skin prickle. Rolande's heart quickened as he approached the altar, a sense of foreboding settling in the pit of his stomach. The candle flames flickered wildly, casting eerie shadows that seemed to twist and turn, forming grotesque shapes on the stone walls.

Just as he was about to turn and flee, a soft voice called out to him from the shadows. "Welcome, lost soul," it whispered, chilling his spine. Rolande's eyes searched for the source of the voice, but all he could see was darkness.

"Who are you?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I am merely a visitor," the voice replied, its tone both soothing and menacing. "I need your help, Rolande."

Rolande's mind raced with questions—none of which explained how this shadow knew his name—while his fear warred with a strange curiosity that compelled him to stay and listen. The shadows seemed to swirl around him as if alive with a mind of their own, drawing him closer to the voice that seemed to resonate from the very walls of the church.

"What reason could possibly bring me here?" Rolande finally managed to say, his voice wavering with a mix of apprehension and fascination.

"I am limited in where I can travel. A person is looking for me, but she will not find this place on her own. That is where you come in," the voice replied cryptically, shivering Rolande's spine.

From the depths of the church, a figure emerged, its face hidden in the shifting shadows of its cloak. Rolande could feel its gaze, cold and penetrating, as it locked onto him. The figure's voice, when it spoke, echoed through the chamber, sending shivers down Rolande's spine.

"You have been chosen," the figure intoned, echoing through the vast chamber. "Chosen to help me bring her here. I apologize for what is about to happen to you. You were chosen, though, for excellent reasons."

Rolande's heart pounded in his chest as he realized the gravity of his situation. His mind raced as he tried to make sense of the cryptic words the mysterious figure in the church spoke to him. The air grew colder around him, and a sense of foreboding weighed heavily on his shoulders.

He felt a surge of fear and defiance rise within him. "And if I choose not to?" Rolande inquired, his voice trembling but resolute. Despite the fear gnawing at him, he refused to succumb to the darkness that threatened to consume him.

The figure chuckled, a sound that sent chills down Rolande's spine. "Oh, but Rolande, you already have. Your mind has already chosen for you when you see this church instead of the rundown building that is being shown to everyone else. It’s simply your heart that is stalling you," it said, its voice echoing through the ancient walls of the church.

As the figure advanced towards him, Rolande stepped back, his heart pounding. He cast a desperate glance around the shadowed chamber before he rubbed his left hand across the back of his weathered neck. It came to him, piece by piece. He had no spouse, no children, and no grandchildren. All of his friends had passed on over the years. He was truly alone — thus, the perfect person to carry out the mission he was being tasked with.

The figure escaped the shadows, and flickers of light revealed the face of a woman who looked as cautious and concerned as Rolande did. Seeing her stand before him, vulnerable and seeking, softened his heart considerably.

“Okay,” he calmed his voice as he spoke. “What is it that you need me to do?”

V

“OK, laisse-moi comprendre,” Julien began. “You have had the several dreams — lifelike dreams — and these dreams take you to a village in France. Except, you’ve never been to France before this tour. You do not know the shit about this country, et pour tout ce que tu sais this village in France could be conjured from La Belle et la Bête. Still, a woman has appeared in each dream. The first time, whispering to you the words endroits minces — thin places — and the second time looking like a picture of your mother you think you remember.”

Julien looked at Rose, seeing in her eyes that he was correct thus far.

“So, you try to do the research — the Google, the chats with the therapist — and learn that perhaps the ‘thin places’ are where Heaven and the Earth meet, which sounds wonderful, except oh no, you do not know the shit about France, and the FLAMBERGE is the one Frenchman you are aware of, and so instead of discussing the finer points of choking people to the blackout in the PRIME ring it is more important for the Alsatian to give you the deep scoops about the Mystical Frenchisms. Am I, maybe you’d say, ‘on the money’?”

Rose sighed, leaning back in her chair, and nodded her head.

“Bon. As I alluded to in the text, I am the greatest and the best at all of the things, so it is good that you chose to come to me with this matter.”

As Julien rambled on, feeling somewhat confident this morning, he saw Rose's eyes turn dark. He realized that Rose could be a moment away from poisoning him or chaining him to a wheelchair—he’d seen her do both of those things. And while humorous to watch, he imagined it would not be as fun to partake in said activities.

“Well, dear Rose, I have one question for you.”

“Say you find your ‘thin place’ here in France…what do you hope to gain?” Julien asked, his tone serious now as he studied Rose’s expression closely. She hesitated for a moment as if weighing her words carefully before responding.

“I don’t quite know,” Rose admitted quietly, her gaze drifting to the window where the sunlight filtered through the curtains. “But there's a pull, an inexplicable tug at my heart that tells me I must go there. It's like a piece of me is waiting in that village to be reunited.”

Julien nodded thoughtfully, his mind already racing with possibilities and theories about Rose's mysterious connection to the village in France.

“And what if you do not find what you hope to find? Dreams are dreams, after all - and, I’m sad to ask, your mother…she passed away, non?”

Rose met Julien's probing gaze with a steady look, her eyes betraying a flicker of uncertainty before steeling over again. She took a moment to gather her thoughts, her voice quiet but resolute when she finally spoke.

"If I don't find what I seek in that village, I will know I tried. Perhaps it is not about finding something tangible but about the journey itself. Maybe in seeking out this 'thin place,' I will find a piece of myself that has been lost since my mother's passing. And if not... Well, then, at least I will have closure."

Julien observed Rose, noting the determination and vulnerability that played across her features. He had watched her as she joined PRIME, going after Tom, Max, and RIA. If nothing else, she was convinced and convicted. She believed in her purpose, and none was more dangerous than those who believed in their cause.

Julien leaned back in his chair, his mind churning with thoughts and ideas. Rose's quest to find the thin place in France intrigued him, not just for the mystery it held but for the emotional depth it seemed to carry for her. There was a vulnerability in Rose that he had not seen before, a side of her that made her more human, more relatable.

"Well, Rose," Julien began, his tone softer now, “Believe me when I tell you, I understand the power of the bond of the child to the mother.” He looks at his watch - shoot, it’s later than he thought. His eyes dart quickly, soon catching sight of a black taxi parked outside the café, its driver snacking on a croissant.

“And I think this calls for the heavy artillery. I believe I may be able to help you find this thin place on your journey. I have, let’s call it, my ‘special connection’ here."

Rose's eyes lit up with a mixture of hope and gratitude. She had not expected Julien to offer his help so readily. But there was a kindness in his gesture that touched her heart.

"Thank you, Julien," Rose said sincerely, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “So what is next?”

Julien gulped down his cup of coffee, which was slightly too full to get down in one go, but he got there in the end — never understanding why Americans called it ‘Joe’ as he knew a Joe and would never call something so refined as this cup after him — and slammed his palm into the marble table, startling Rose in the process.

“It is time to go,” he informed Rose rather quickly. “Allez, I will take you to my expert. She knows how to talk to people about leurs putains de rêves fous better than anyone, she has a patience I lack. And, she makes the best croque madame in Strasbourg.”

Rose quickly gathered her items and began to rise from her seat. “Who is that?”

A smile appeared on Julien’s face. “Why, my mother, of course.”

VI

“Do you understand what I need you to do?” the shadowy figure asked Rolande. He let the question sit in his mind for a moment, letting the woman's words truly settle within him.

Rolande nodded slowly, his heart racing with fear and determination. The woman before him was a mysterious figure cloaked in darkness, her features obscured by shadows. But her tone left no room for misunderstanding; the task she asked of him was grave.

“Yes,” Rolande finally replied, his voice steady despite his turmoil. “I will do as you ask.”

The woman’s lips curled into a faint smile, barely visible in the room's dim light. “Remember, Rolande, this task is of the utmost importance,” she reminded him before vanishing into the shadows again.

As he stood alone in the silent chamber, Rolande felt the weight of her words pressing down on him. But he steeled himself for the journey ahead, knowing he had no choice but to confront the darkness that threatened to consume everything he held dear. With a deep breath, he set off into the unknown, determined to fulfill his destiny, as if the words whispered in his ear now controlled him.

VII

Rose and Julien emerged from the small cafe. Julien was excited to see his mother, introduce Rose to his mother (though he hoped it didn’t lead to questions he wasn’t interested in discussing), and see his home again. Rose simply wanted to find this village to find out what connection — if any — it had with her mother. She knew the end of the road would be filled with disappointment, but the lingering questions would loom larger if she didn’t chase this down.

As they turned a corner, Rose took in Strasbourg, the largest cozy little village she’d ever seen, smiling as she looked around.

The cobbled streets of Strasbourg seemed to whisper secrets of the past as Rose and Julien meandered through the village. The quaint houses with colorful shutters stood in contrast to the modern world beyond its borders. Rose couldn't help but feel a sense of belonging in this historical place despite the weight of her unanswered questions.

As they walked, Julien pointed out different landmarks, sharing stories from his childhood that brought a sparkle to his eyes. Rose listened intently, savoring each detail as they approached Julien's childhood home. She couldn't shake off the feeling that every step brought her closer to unraveling the mystery surrounding her mother.

“So, Rose,” Julien cut across her thoughts. “You want to celebrate your victory yet? Tell me how you feel.”

Julien was helping her, so she reasoned she could share with him the thing that was lessening her victory in her eyes. “I…,” she attempted to find the words to express her feelings. “It feels like the losses mattered far more than the victory did. As low as I’ve felt when it comes to losing, I thought the high with winning would match it. But not even close.”

A smile appeared on Julien’s face. “Ah, never satisfied. I wonder if this is the difference between your father and the Rose. From the stories I know of him, he was just happy to be there, écouter les chants, even if it meant he never was truly the best. And - do not take this wrong,” he held his hand up quickly, wanting to make sure he didn’t suffer the fury of Rose’s scorn. “I am sure this was enough to make him happy. Wrestlers only make the PRIME Hall of Fame if they are worth the damn. But, as much as you may be like him, there is a core difference. One taste of the victory, it is not enough. You seek the feast.”

Rose gave Julien a sideways glance.

“Plenty of the people look at you and they cannot separate the father from the daughter in their minds. Truth be told, there is the tinge of the regret in my heart that his neck will never live on my mantle. The level of his fame is so dramatic that every stumble you make is magnified...which makes this man wonder. PRIME, she is a chipper shredder, and I take the pride at being a primary driver of this fact - why would the child of a world-famous and beloved Hall of Famer choose the very promotion where he found his fame to cut her teeth? Why choose to stumble so very publicly and with the very many eyes, when instead, perhaps, you could cut the teeth in the minor leagues first?”

Julien stops in his tracks and looks at the Second Coming. Rose’s demeanor has soured, though she knows she can’t risk losing Julien now.

“Tell me, Rose. Why come to your father’s stomping ground first? Why choose the path of the most resistance? The competitors who know, know your talent - the overwhelming rest, they see nepotism. You have, how you might say, ‘the look’. You could have waited until you were the more ‘finished product’ before making the very public missteps in the house your father helped build, and I wonder why; sometimes, I almost think I can see it in your eyes. It is there, and then it is gone, it flits away like a butterfly…you hold many secrets, Ms. Rose. Spill them.”

A smile, knowingly, appears on her face. “I’m far less complex than you take me to be.”

Julien shakes his head. “Bullshit. But, no matter - we are here.”

Finally, they reached a charming cottage at the end of a winding street. Julien said something to the driver and handed him some cash before escorting Rose from the taxi. The scent of freshly baked bread wafted from the house, mingling with the blooming flowers in Julien's mother's garden. Julien hesitated momentarily before knocking on the door, gathering all his thoughts — and suspicions about Rose — and putting them into a neat little basket he has in the corner of his mind for moments like this. There may be other things in that corner, but that’s not for us to discuss today.

There’s no response. Julien knocked again.

Rose stood there next to him before she heard a voice — female. She assumed his mother. Then there was another voice — male. That one left Rose confused. A woman poked her head through the crack as the door creaked open. Julia, Rose presumed, locked eyes with her and looked confused before her eyes landed upon her son, and a smile broke through. The door swung open, and Julia bounced through the threshold and wrapped her son in the biggest hug Rose had seen in quite some time. A slight pang of hurt tapped against her heart, but she brushed it away as quickly as she wiped away tears that never came.

“Mama,” Julien began as he turned towards his guest. “This is my friend, Rose. New friend, I guess you could say. She wrestles at the place that I wrestle.” Julia’s eyes lit up - her son, making friends? Amazing! “Anyway, look - j'ai deux mots pour toi - endroits minces.”

As Rose looked at Julia’s face, she saw a recognition she hadn’t seen on anybody else’s face. She turned towards Rose, eyes large — both pleased about the subject and yet also surprised — and waved her over. “Please, come in then.” Julia then looks at Julien. “Vas-tu rester aussi, mon fils?”

Rose can hear the longing in her voice and closes her eyes, afraid the emotion will tear her apart. Thankfully, Julien is locked on her mother, and she him.

“Unfortunately I have to make an appointment in town - it is an autograph thing - but I will be back for lunch, and I will sign the items SO fast. Je sais que c'est gênant et on dirait que je la laisse tomber sur toi, but please be nice to Rose, I will be back very soon—” he began to lean in for a hug but paused after the two embraced. The voice, male, returned. French words graced Rose’s ears, and she turned to see a man coming towards them. She turned and saw Julien’s face.

Sullen. Sunken.