Saturday, July 16, 1984. In a small, wooded patch of grass inside Charleville, Ardennes, in the French Second Empire—a place too modest to be called a forest—Jules lies on his back, looking at the sky. Warm sunlight pours down onto the grass. The occasional sound of nameless insects can be heard, and the faint tolling of village bells carries on the breeze from afar. It is around two in the afternoon. The sky is clear without a single cloud, and the beams of light filtering through the leaves create dappled patterns on Jules's face. Beside Jules lies a half-eaten apple on the grass. The bite marks are jagged, and tiny droplets of water have formed on the dew-dampened grass. He repeatedly narrows and opens his eyes, feeling the warmth of the sun with his whole body. His thick brown hair is scattered among the blades of grass. He moves his fingers as if drawing something in the air, then suddenly glances to the side.

...Why did you come.