Reincarnated: Vive La France-Chapter 164: "You’re safe."

Early October 1936

It began in silence, broken only by the murmur of wind passing hrough pine branches.

In a forgotten valley, hidden between rolling hills and thick forest, a small camp of refugees endured.

The remnants of burnt towns, wounded soldiers, and displaced families found their way here.

No signs marked the trail.

No soldiers patrolled these woods.

It was the kind of place the war had not found yet.

The camp had no name.

Just a few tents stitched from blankets, an old chapel collapsed on one side, and a crumbling stable that doubled as shelter for the sick.

Chickens wandered freely, and children played with sticks while the adults tended fires, cut wood, and watched the tree line with cautious eyes.

In the farthest corner of the camp, beneath a tent reinforced with wooden poles,

Moreau lay unconscious, wrapped in wool and bandages.

His arm was bound to his chest.

His side wrapped tight.

Scars of fire laced his skin.

For days, he hadn’t moved.

Three refugees had pulled him from the wreckage at Alborán.

They’d found him in the center of the square, half-buried under stone and ash.

One boot had stuck out from the rubble.

"He was still warm," said Elias, the man who had carried him. "But not breathing right."

"We should’ve left him," another had argued. "Could be dangerous."

"No man dies like that and stays dangerous. He wanted to live. That was enough."

They’d taken him on a broken door, strapped to a mule, through ravines and back roads.

Not even the other camps knew.

They’d spoken of him in low voices, always at night.

No one dared say the name they suspected.

Interstingly a bunch of refugees were able to him safely out of town without getting sighted by germans in a town controlled by them.

Now, days later, Carmen sat beside him, a gentle woman with steady hands.

She soaked cloths in pine oil and water, pressing them to his burns.

She didn’t ask who he was.

She only worked.

Each day, she whispered.

"You came back for a reason."

Children peeked in sometimes.

Tomas and Ana brought soup, flowers, or quiet curiosity.

Once, Ana had asked her mother, "Is he a soldier?"

"He’s something more," her mother replied.

"But we’ll let him remember that for himself."

On the twelfth day, he opened his eyes.

"Water," he spoke.

Carmen hurried to his side, lifting his head. "You’re safe. Drink slowly."

He sipped, coughed, and looked around with confused eyes. "Where is this?"

"Somewhere quiet. Somewhere forgotten."

He blinked. "The square..."

"Gone. Like most things."

He tried to sit up but groaned.

His body refused to obey.

"You’re healing. But you lost blood. Your ribs were broken. Your arms even more worse."

He nodded faintly. "They all fall eventually."

"But you didn’t," Carmen said.

He studied her face. "Why did you help me?"

Carmen didn’t flinch. "Because you needed help. That used to be reason enough."

Moreau closed his eyes again.

Outside, the camp carried on.

No one entered the tent unless invited.

No one asked.

Later, Elias brought him broth.

"You ate yet?"

Moreau shook his head.

"Eat. You need your strength. People around here don’t know who you are. Not exactly. But they know enough."

"What do they know?"

"That you’re one of ours. That you came back from something most men wouldn’t. That you don’t talk much."

"That last part may change," Moreau muttered.

Elias smirked. "Let it. But until then, you heal."

Days passed.

He sat up on his own.

Helped stir soup.

Washed his face in the river with Ana nearby.

Children whispered behind trees, watching him.

Carmen kept his wounds clean.

Still, no one called him by name.

One evening, as the sun dipped behind the hills, Moreau asked Carmen.

"Why haven’t you told them who I am?"

"Because they don’t need to know. They only need to feel safe."

"Do you know?"

"Yes."

He paused. "Why not tell the others?"

Carmen sat beside him on a log. "Because names bring questions. And questions bring soldiers."

"So you’re protecting me."

"No. We’re protecting what you represent."

He looked into the fire. "That representation got people killed."

Carmen didn’t blink. "But it made them believe. And belief is rare these days."

A child approached the fire with a piece of wood.

It was carved into a rough figure a man standing straight, one hand clenched, the other raised.

"For you," Tomas said quietly.

Moreau took it, stared at it for a long time.

"Thank you," he said.

"Are you going to leave?" Tomas asked.

"Not yet."

At night, Moreau tossed in his sleep.

Carmen heard him speak through fever dreams.

"Hold the line... dig deeper... Clara, no!"

One night, he screamed.

Elias had to hold him down.

"You’re safe," Elias whispered. "You’re safe."

Moreau breathed heavily. "I saw them all die. Renaud. Ortega. Clara... I don’t know if any made it."

"Maybe they didn’t," Elias said. "But you did."

The next morning, Moreau walked with a limp around the perimeter of the camp.

He noted the paths, the supplies, the routines.

His instincts returned.

Carmen watched from the kitchen fire.

"He’s mapping the whole place," she said.

"It’s who he is," Elias replied.

One night, Moreau sat by the fire with the others.

No one interrupted him.

He just stared into the flames.

"I was supposed to die there," he said.

Heads turned.

"That was the plan. A final stand. A message. We’d make them remember."

He shifted. "But I woke up here. That wasn’t part of it."

Ana broke the silence. "Maybe someone else wrote the next part."

He looked at her, surprised.

Elias nodded slowly. "Maybe the war isn’t done with you."

Moreau sighed. "And what if I’m done with it?"

No one had an answer.

The next day, Carmen gave him a clean shirt and a wrapped bandage.

"You can walk now. Your strength is returning."

He folded the shirt. "What happens if they find me?"

"Then we hide you again. Or you run. Or you fight. Your choice."

That night, a girl played a tune on a whistle.

Children danced.

The older refugees passed around weak wine.

Moreau sat beside Elias.

"I don’t know who I am without the uniform," he said.

"You were a man before it. You’re still a man now."

"But they buried me. And I let them."

"You didn’t choose survival. It chose you. Maybe for a reason."

Moreau looked out over the camp.

"Then maybe it’s time I start asking what that reason is."

And so he stayed.

Quiet.

Watching.

Healing.

He didn’t say the name Moreau.

Not once.

But everyone knew.

They didn’t need to hear it.

He was not a ghost.

He was just a man.

And for now, that was enough.