Ashes of Fortune

Adrien had once been the kind of man who believed money could fix anything. After his first success — a lucky investment, a few well-timed trades — he built a world of glass and light around himself. The kind of world where silence was golden and friendship was a transaction.

He lived on the top floor of a building overlooking the Seine, where the city shimmered each night like a reflection of his ambition. But behind the laughter and champagne, his life had begun to rot from the inside. When the markets crashed, the calls started coming — investors, partners, creditors. He stopped answering.

One evening, he went to the old café where he’d once written his first business plan. The waitress still recognized him. “You look tired, monsieur Adrien,” she said softly. He smiled — a hollow, defeated curve of the lips.

He had one envelope left. Not with money, but with a letter addressed to no one. He watched it burn in the ashtray, the paper curling slowly until the words disappeared. Then he stood up, leaving behind the smell of smoke and regret.

At dawn, the river carried a single briefcase downstream — unlocked, half-open, its papers dissolving into gray water.

The headlines the next day spoke of another fallen tycoon. The city barely noticed. Paris forgets quickly.