The transition from the sweltering, vibrant chaos of Mumbai to the hushed, limestone streets of Southern France felt like moving from a dream into a painting. For Myra and Elise, it was supposed to be the start of their greatest adventure. Being the daughters of an Indian mother and a French father, they had always existed between two worlds. In India, they were the "French twins," and here, they were the "Indian sisters." They moved through the world as a single unit, two halves of a shared soul.
"Can you believe the silence, Myra?" Elise asked, leaning over the rusted wrought-iron balcony of their new apartment. She took a deep breath of the crisp evening air. "It doesn't smell like diesel and street food. It smells like... old books and rain."
Myra laughed, though she kept her eyes fixed on the heavy wooden crate she was unpacking. "It's beautiful, El, but it's also a little eerie. These walls are so thick I feel like I'm living in a fortress. And the floorboards? I think they're complaining about our luggage." She hopped once, making the wood groan with a deep, hollow sound that seemed to travel through the entire building.
Their first week at the university was a blur of limestone courtyards and nervous energy. They quickly found their "tribe": Claire, a girl with fiery red hair and a laugh that could be heard across the quad; Beau, a philosophy student who acted like he was in a 1960s French movie; and Mia, a shy artist who saw the world through a camera lens. By Friday night, the five of them were sitting at a small bistro called Le Murmure, tucked away in a narrow alley.
"So, the twins from India," Claire said, leaning in over a table cluttered with espresso cups and half-eaten croissants. "What's the biggest shock so far? The lack of rickshaws or the fact that we eat bread with every single meal?"
"The rhythm of the day," Elise said, her voice unusually thoughtful. She stirred her coffee, watching the dark liquid swirl. "Everything here feels slower. Like the town is holding its breath, waiting for something to happen."
Beau tilted his head. "That's the history of this place, Elise. These stones have been here since the 1400s. They've seen wars, plagues, and secrets we'll never know. The silence isn't empty; it's just full of things we can't hear yet."
"That's creepy, Beau," Mia joked, snapping a photo of the group. "Don't scare them on their first week."
As they walked home later that night, the streetlamps flickered with a dying, orange light. The cobblestones were slick with a thin layer of mist. Myra and Elise walked side-by-side, their shoulders brushing in a familiar rhythm. Suddenly, Elise stopped dead in her tracks.
"Did you hear that?" Elise whispered, her face turning pale under the dim light.
Myra paused, straining her ears. "Hear what? It's just the wind in the archway."
"No," Elise said, her eyes wide as she scanned the empty shadows of the alley. "Someone just said 'Hola.' It was right in my ear. A soft, rhythmic whisper. It sounded almost like... a song."
Myra felt a sudden prickle of cold on the back of her neck. "El, we're in France. Why would a ghost be speaking Spanish? You're just tired. It's the caffeine and the move."
"It wasn't a person," Elise insisted, her voice trembling. "It was an echo. But there was no one there to make the sound."
Myra laughed it off, pulling her sister closer, but as they reached their heavy wooden door, she couldn't shake the feeling that the silence was no longer empty. It was watching them.