Today is June 8, 1795.
The last day of Louis-Charles' life.
It's still very early. Just past midnight. It's so dark. There is fog coming off the river and I cannot see the stars.
I'm on the roof of a church. To finish what Alex could not. I sneaked in during the evening Mass and hid in the back behind an old stone tomb. I waited until the priest had snuffed the candles and locked the door, then I fished my flashlight out of my pocket and made my way up a spiral staircase to the bell tower.
I look at the Temple now and I know that inside it, Louis- Charles lies dying. Alone. In the dark. Insane. In pain. Afraid.
And all the while, the world keeps spinning. People sleep. They dream. Snore. Kick the cat off the bed. Fight. Cry. Pray. It doesn't stop, this world. Not now, in Paris. Not years from now, in Brooklyn. It goes on.
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