The Weight of Gold

Lucien had never seen so much money in one place. The suitcase lay open on the hotel bed, its metallic edges gleaming in the dim light of the bedside lamp. Bundles of crisp euros, perfectly aligned, like rows of silent soldiers waiting for his command. For a long moment, he just stared. He’d spent years in debt, years chasing shadows of luck — and now, fortune had simply walked into his hands.

The job had sounded simple enough. Pick up the suitcase. Don’t ask questions. Deliver it to a man at Gare de Lyon by sunrise. Twenty minutes of work for a reward that could erase his past. He’d promised himself he’d do it cleanly, quickly, professionally. But when he saw the money, all those promises fell apart like ash.

He poured himself a glass of cheap whisky, the one he always bought when pretending to celebrate something. The taste was bitter, but the sight of the bills made it sweet. “Just one night,” he told himself. “Just one night to feel what it’s like.”

Lucien went shopping on the Champs-Élysées, his worn shoes clicking against the marble floors of boutiques that once laughed him out. A tailored suit. A gold watch. A bottle of champagne that cost more than his monthly rent. He looked in the mirror and saw someone else — someone powerful, untouchable, free.

That night, he stood on the balcony of his small hotel, looking out at Paris glittering below. The Eiffel Tower shimmered through the mist, and for the first time in his life, he felt the city belonged to him. He thought of calling his ex-wife, of telling her he’d made it. But then he remembered her voice the day she left — “You’ll never change, Lucien. You’ll always chase ghosts.”

He laughed, loud enough to startle the pigeons on the ledge. Maybe she was right. But ghosts couldn’t buy champagne.

When dawn began to stretch over the rooftops, Lucien’s laughter died. The suitcase was gone. He froze, scanning the room. The bed was empty, the lock unbroken. Only the faint imprint of its weight remained on the blanket.

Panic clawed at his chest. He checked under the bed, the wardrobe, even the balcony — nothing. Then came the knock. Three slow taps. Firm. Precise.

Two men entered, wearing dark coats and colder expressions. “Monsieur Lucien,” one said, almost politely. “You had something that wasn’t yours.”

Lucien’s lips trembled. “It was— it was right here—”

The taller man smiled faintly. “It always is. Until it isn’t.”

No one in the hotel remembered hearing a struggle. No one noticed when the room was cleared by noon. Only the smell of burnt whisky and torn fabric lingered in the air.

When the cleaning lady opened the window later that afternoon, the golden light of Paris spilled into the room, dancing over an empty glass and a single euro note, fluttering in the breeze — a final echo of everything Lucien had wanted to be.