Reincarnated: Vive La France-Chapter 51: Family Reunion

The journey from Verdun to Lyon had been long nearly eight hours through the French countryside, passing rivers, sleepy hamlets, and church spires that were visible in the horizon.

The train vibrated a lot and hissed as it began to slow, the station of Gare de Lyon-Perrache finally coming into view.

As the train came to a halt with a final exhale of steam, Moreau stood from his seat and adjusted his coat.

Renaud, groggy from his light doze, muttered, "We made it, eh? Feels like I've aged a year on that seat."

"Don't be dramatic," Moreau smirked, grabbing his bag from the overhead rack. "You sleep like a dog."

Outside the train, the station was full of noise and people.

Conductors in navy blue uniforms shouted schedules.

Porters, wearing faded caps, wheeled carts loaded with leather trunks.

Women in long coats clutched small children, and vendors called out about warm chestnuts and newspapers.

The air was fresh and pure mixed with breads that were sold around.

A thin mist was covering the morning air and the structure of the station.

The architecture of the station arched iron supports, massive glass panels, and fading Belle Époque signage gave the whole place the so called exquisite french look.

Renaud whistled. "Lyon, huh? Smells better than Verdun. Or maybe that's just the lack of trench boots."

Moreau grinned. "Let's go."

Outside, the city of Lyon stretched out before them narrow cobblestone streets, bright window shutters, and the sound of bicycle bells mingling with the occasional horn from a Citroën Type B.

Horse-drawn carts were still the main force alongside the newer taxis.

Men in wool suits smoked by newspaper stands, talking politics in sharp accents.

They hailed a Renault TN6 bus, one of the newer city transport lines connecting Lyon's central districts.

The conductor, a rough man with a moustache and an accent from Savoie, nodded politely as they boarded.

"Where to, messieurs?"

"Montplaisir," Moreau replied.

"Ah, very good. Lovely district."

The ride was bumpy but quiet.

Children walked along the sidewalk holding hands, and flower stalls filled the corners near cafés.

It was Lyon in its ordinary charm old, beautiful, and breathing slowly.

Finally, they disembarked. Moreau took a long breath.

His home was a modest two-story townhouse with weathered blue shutters and a big iron gate.

The window boxes still had dried flowers from last season, and the old oak tree in front stood like a old guard.

As they reached the gate, a boy around eleven was playing with a carved wooden plane in the yard.

Moreau stopped, breath catching in his throat.

His brother.

The boy turned and froze.

There was a second of stunned silence.

Then the wooden plane dropped from his hand and hit the stone with a soft clack.

"Brother!" the boy shouted, voice cracking, and sprinted across the garden.

He threw himself into Moreau's arms, nearly knocking the bag from his shoulder.

"You're here! You're actually here!"

Moreau stumbled slightly, laughing as he wrapped his arms around the boy. "Hey, careful! You've gotten taller since I last saw you."

The commotion brought two more figures to the doorway a woman in a simple floral apron and a man in a tan jacket with a pipe clenched in his teeth.

Moreau looked up.

Their eyes met.

His mother gasped, dropping her dishrag as she ran toward them. "Étienne!"

He didn't resist the hug.

He couldn't.

She squeezed him tight, tears already in her eyes, muttering, "You didn't even write back, you stubborn boy..."

"I know," he whispered. "I'm sorry, Maman."

His father, ever the composed civil servant, approached slower.

But the crack in his voice betrayed him. "Welcome home, son."

Moreau reached out and embraced him. "It's good to be back, Papa."

Only once all the greetings had passed did Renaud awkwardly clear his throat behind them.

"Uh… not to interrupt this beautiful reunion or anything, but are introductions part of the program?"

Moreau stepped back, arm still around his brother. "This is Renaud. My partner in crime."

Renaud bowed theatrically. "The charming one. And more handsome. You can verify that with your son."

His little brother giggled. "You don't look like the army type."

Renaud blinked. "Is that an insult or a compliment?"

Inside, the house smelled like fresh onion soup.

The kitchen table was already set.

"You didn't tell us you were coming!" his mother said as she passed him a bowl. "I could've baked a tart or something special!"

"It was meant to be a surprise," Moreau replied, spooning a bit of soup and nodding at the taste.

"Well, it worked," his father said, sitting down with his pipe on the side table. "You nearly gave your mother a heart attack."

Renaud grinned. "Trust me, sir, he nearly gives everyone a heart attack."

As they ate, the table was filled with warmth and light.

His brother wouldn't stop peppering him with questions.

His mother kept glancing at him like he might vanish.

His father finally leaned forward. "So... how is army life?"

Moreau paused.

He glanced at Renaud, who raised a subtle brow.

"It's… challenging," Moreau said carefully. "A lot of movement. Training. Reforms. Politics."

His father grunted. "Sounds like my ministry, but with more mud."

Renaud chuckled. "And with fewer sane people."

His mother wagged a finger. "No army talk at dinner. You're home. You're with your family. That's all that matters."

Moreau smiled. "Yes, Maman."

"Any signs of promotion?" his father asked next, voice gentle.

Moreau stirred his spoon. "There might be something next year."

"Good," his father nodded. "You've always been ambitious. And you've earned it."

As the last of the soup was eaten and plates cleared, his mother pointed toward the hallway.

"Now, you two smell like war and dirt. Go clean up. The official interrogation will resume after dessert."

As Moreau stood in the washroom, splashing water onto his face.

He stared at his reflection in the small mirror.

He hadn't realized how tired he looked.

But being here, now… it didn't feel wrong.

It felt like he had finally returned.

To something worth protecting.

To something real.