Chapter Text
The morning was colder than the previous ones. Not because of the weather, but because of the air, which seemed to hold something. Ayrton had been in the garden since early, his hands buried in damp soil, as though the body could justify its own presence. The begonias looked more alive than yesterday. Or perhaps he was seeing them differently. The air smelled of something new. Not perfume. Not threat. Presence.
From inside the house came the sound of a suitcase rolling across ceramic tiles. Then, footsteps. Then, nothing.
Ayrton didn’t turn around. His fingers kept moving among the roots, though with less conviction. He knew someone had arrived. And that this arrival was no ordinary thing.
Bernadette entered without ceremony. Her stride was firm, but not aggressive. Alain greeted her with a brief, almost shy gesture: a tilt of the head, hands in pockets, as if unsure what to do with them. Victoria approached with a smile that wasn’t entirely certain. Her arms hung at her sides, torn between an embrace and distance.
There were no long hugs. No words of welcome. Only recognition.
Bernadette left the suitcase by the coat stand. She looked around with a neutral expression, though her eyes lingered on each corner as if measuring the weight of the silence. And she said, as one who expects no answers:
—So it’s true.
Alain didn’t reply. His jaw tightened slightly. Victoria lowered her gaze, as though the words had triggered a guilt she couldn’t name. Bernadette didn’t press further.
Ayrton remained in the garden. He watered the plants with more force than necessary. Water splashed onto his shoes. He didn’t care. His shoulders were stiff, as though his body were trying to contain something too large.
The house was no longer the same. Not because of what had been said. But because of what was now known.
And he, who had begun to inhabit it, once again felt like a guest.
The silence lingered even after Bernadette went upstairs to leave her things. Victoria retreated to her room. Ayrton stayed in the garden, as if contact with the earth could anchor him. And Alain, unsure what to do with the weight of the arrival, headed to the kitchen. Not out of hunger. Out of habit. Out of a need for space.
The kitchen was dim when Bernadette entered. She didn’t turn on the light. She moved like someone who already knows the space, as if the darkness were part of the furniture. She poured herself a coffee without asking, her movements slow, almost ceremonial.
Alain watched her from the doorway. He said nothing at first. His posture was that of someone carrying something he doesn’t know how to name: slumped shoulders, hands in pockets, eyes fixed on the steam rising from the cup.
—Did you sleep well? —he asked, in a low voice, as if unwilling to break the silence.
Bernadette sat down without yet looking at him. She held the cup in her hands, as if seeking warmth beyond the liquid.
—No. But not because of the plane seat.
Alain nodded. He didn’t ask further. He stepped forward and sat across from her. The table held breadcrumbs, a crumpled napkin, and that kind of silence that doesn’t unsettle—because it’s been lived many times before.
—How do you see him? —Bernadette asked, without lifting her gaze.
Alain took his time to answer. His fingers interlaced on the table. He stared at the rim of the cup, as if the answer lay there.
—Like someone who doesn’t know if he’s alive.
Bernadette lowered her gaze. She played with the cup between her fingers, turning it slowly. The steam had already faded.
—And you?
Alain let out a small, joyless laugh. He leaned back slightly in the chair, as if his body needed space to hold the truth.
—Like someone who doesn’t know if he has the right to be happy.
The coffee was growing cold. Light entered through the window as if asking permission. Bernadette looked at him at last, with an expression that wasn’t judgement—but tenderness.
—Does it bother you that I’m here?
Alain shook his head. His gesture was slow, almost imperceptible.
—No.
—And Victoria?
—She wants him here.
—And you?
Bernadette smiled, just barely. The smile wasn’t an answer. It was recognition.
—Me too.
—For me?
—For you.
—And for him?
Bernadette adjusted herself in the chair. Her back straight, her eyes fixed on Alain.
—Because he doesn’t seem to have anywhere else.
Alain leaned on the table with his elbows. He looked older than yesterday. But also clearer.
—I don’t know what to do with what I feel.
Bernadette didn’t reply straight away. Her voice was low, yet firm. Her hands let go of the cup. Now they were empty.
—Don’t do anything. Just don’t deny it.
The conversation ended there. Not for lack of words. But because the ones that mattered had already been spoken.
Bernadette stood up. Alain remained seated, staring at the empty cup. As if something unread still lingered in its shape. And in the garden, Ayrton kept watering begonias.
A while later, Bernadette crossed the garden unhurriedly. She carried a folded blanket in her arms, as if it were an offering. Ayrton saw her coming, but didn’t stop watering. His movements were mechanical, almost ritualistic.
—They don’t need more water —she said, without reproach.
Ayrton lowered the watering can. He held it with both hands, as though it were a shield. His gaze didn’t lift immediately. He seemed to search for an answer in the soil.
—I know.
Bernadette stopped a few steps away. She didn’t intrude. She didn’t demand. She was simply there, like someone who accompanies without asking for anything.
—Then why do you do it?
He hesitated. Not for lack of an answer. But because he didn’t know which one would be acceptable. His fingers tightened around the handle of the watering can.
—Because I don’t know what to do with my hands.
Bernadette nodded. Not with pity. With understanding. She offered him the blanket, wordlessly.
—Then sit down.
—Here?
—Wherever you like.
—And if I’m a bother?
She looked at him. Not with judgement. With a kind of recognition. Her eyes were soft, yet steady.
—Being a bother isn’t the same as being unsettling.
—And which one am I?
Bernadette smiled, just faintly. The smile wasn’t an answer. It was space.
—I don’t know yet.
Ayrton sat on the stone bench. The blanket over his legs. Bernadette remained standing, as if waiting for something that wouldn’t come. The wind moved the leaves with a slow cadence. The garden seemed to hold the scene like a secret.
—May I ask you something? —he said.
—You may.
—Aren’t you afraid of me? Don’t you think all this is incomprehensible?
Bernadette took her time to answer. Not for lack of reasons. But because none of them were definitive. Her arms crossed, her posture firm.
—No. Because Alain isn’t.
—And that’s enough?
—No. But it’s a start.
From inside, Alain watched them with a kind of ancient fear. The kind that doesn’t shout. It simply waits.
After the conversation in the garden, Ayrton returned to the house without making a sound. Not out of shame. Out of respect. Silence felt more dignified than any word.
He climbed the stairs slowly. The door to his room was ajar, as if waiting for him. He entered without turning on the light. He didn’t need it. The room remained immaculate. Too much so. As if it hadn’t been lived in. The bed made. The cover without a crease. The desk arranged with a precision that wasn’t his. He sat on the edge of the bed without undressing. His body rigid. His gaze lost on the floor. On the desk, the lamp was off. The notepad blank. The pencils aligned like soldiers. And in the top drawer, the letter he hadn’t dared to send. Folded. Exactly in the same place.
He stood up. Walked to the window. The garden was dark, but he could make out the stone bench. The same one where Bernadette had listened without asking for anything. He rested his forehead against the frame. The air smelled of lavender. He closed his eyes. And then he saw him. Not with his eyes. With memory:
Alain. In a paddock. Hands in his pockets. Gaze fixed on him. As if he knew something Ayrton hadn’t yet understood.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Ayrton had said, years ago.
“How?”
“Like you understand me.”
The room didn’t answer. But the silence seemed to nod.
Ayrton returned to the bed. Lay down without turning off the light. His body tense. His mind looping.
And before closing his eyes, he whispered something no one heard.
—I don’t know if I want you to understand me.
The clock struck two when Ayrton left the room without making a sound. Not for fear of waking anyone. But out of respect for the silence. The house slept. But he didn’t. He crossed the hallway with soft steps, as if the floor might betray him. The kitchen was lit by a warm, yellow glow that couldn’t quite dispel the shadow in his chest.
Alain stood with his back to him, pouring water. His posture was tense, but not stiff. As if his body had grown used to waiting. Ayrton paused at the threshold. He didn’t know whether to step forward. But his body had already moved. Alain turned. He wasn’t surprised. He simply looked at him, with an expression that was neither judgement nor tenderness. It was recognition.
—Couldn’t sleep again? —he asked, without raising his voice.
Ayrton nodded. He didn’t lie. His eyes were tired, but not defeated.
—Me neither —Alain said.
They stayed there. One at the threshold. The other by the sink. The distance was short. But the silence, longer.
—Would you like some water? —It wasn’t a question. It was an offering.
Ayrton hesitated. Then nodded, with a slight gesture.
Alain handed him the glass. Their fingers brushed. Ayrton felt it like a soft, unexpected blow. Not because of the touch. But because of what it evoked.
—Thank you.
—You’re welcome.
Silence returned. But it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was like an old animal that knows the house. That knows where not to make noise. Ayrton drank. Alain watched him. Not intensely. Carefully.
—Does it feel strange to be here?
Ayrton lowered the glass. Held it with both hands, as if needing to anchor himself.
—It feels impossible.
Alain nodded. He said nothing more. But his gaze remained steady, as if searching for something in him.
Ayrton placed the glass on the counter. Turned to leave. But paused.
—And you?
Alain looked at him. Not harshly. With something more fragile. As if the question had touched a nerve he hadn’t realised was exposed.
—It feels inevitable.
Ayrton didn’t reply. But something in his posture shifted. As if the body understood before the mind. He left without looking back.
Alain remained in the kitchen, with an empty glass and a full memory.
Morning arrived quietly. Alain had gone out early. Bernadette was still asleep—or pretending to be. The house was on pause, as if waiting for something. Victoria ate breakfast alone, her hair tied back, a cup of tea in her hands. The kitchen smelled of toasted bread and a calm that didn’t quite belong to her.
Ayrton entered with soft steps. Not out of shyness. Out of respect. As if the floor might judge him.
Victoria looked up. She wasn’t surprised. But her smile was gentler than usual.
—Have you eaten? —she asked, her voice calm.
Ayrton shook his head. His hands in his pockets. His gaze on the tea cup.
—No.
—Would you like something?
—Just coffee.
Victoria stood up. Her movements were precise, but not mechanical. As if making coffee were a way of caring.
Ayrton watched her with a mix of tenderness and something closer to wonder. As if he couldn’t understand how someone could move with such peace.
—Are you always like this? —he asked.
Victoria turned, one eyebrow raised.
—Like what?
—So... calm.
She smiled. Not mockingly. With complicity.
—Not always.
—And now?
—Now I am.
She served the coffee. Ayrton took it with both hands. As if needing to anchor himself. As if the warmth could hold him.
—Does it bother you that I’m here?
Victoria looked at him. Not with judgement. With curiosity.
—You know it doesn’t.
—Why?
—Because Dad isn’t sad.
Ayrton lowered his gaze. The coffee was cooling. But something in him was warming.
—And you?
—Me what?
—Are you sad?
Victoria thought. Not for lack of an answer. But because she wasn’t sure if she should say it.
—I’m confused.
—Why?
—Because you seem sad, but also as if you’re waiting for something.
Ayrton didn’t reply. But his hand trembled, just slightly. Victoria noticed. She said nothing.
—May I ask you something? —she said.
—Of course.
—Would you want to go back? I mean, to your time? Obviously without the fatal crash part.
Ayrton looked at her. Not with surprise. With a kind of broken tenderness.
—I don’t know.
Victoria nodded. She didn’t press. She simply sat down again, as if silence were also a form of conversation.
When Alain returned, he retreated to his study, sinking into silence. He pretended to work. The papers before him were figures, dates— things that didn’t hurt. What hurt was what he couldn’t name.
The door was ajar. The desk lamp was on.
Bernadette entered quietly. She carried a tray with a teapot and two cups. She placed it on the table without a word.
Alain didn’t look at her. But he knew it was her. Her presence was like a warm shadow.
The study smelled of old paper and polished wood. On the shelves: technical books, biographies, folders with dates. But what drew the eye most was what wasn’t neatly arranged.
A helmet. Framed photographs. A trophy engraved with Ayrton’s name. A notebook with notes in Portuguese. All placed with care, but without distance. As if Alain didn’t know whether to store or display them.
Bernadette approached one of the shelves. She brushed her fingers along the edge of a photo. Ayrton and Alain, in Monaco. Smiling. But not for the press. For someone behind the camera.
Alain watched her from the desk. He said nothing. His posture was tense, but not defensive. As if his body knew something was about to be said.
Bernadette turned. Handed him a cup of tea.
—Thank you —he said, without looking up.
She sat in the armchair in the corner. She didn’t ask. She didn’t judge. She simply waited.
The silence grew denser. As if the room held something that hadn’t yet been spoken.
And then Alain spoke.
—It was in Imola.
—What was?
—What I never said.
The memory arrived without warning. Ayrton, in the garage. The Williams suit hanging from his waist. The soft smile. Not for the cameras. Perhaps only for him.
“Are you alright?” Alain had asked.
“Why do you ask?”
“Because you don’t seem it.”
Ayrton had looked at him. Long. As if searching for something in him.
“And you?”
“Me what?”
“Are you alright?”
Alain hadn’t answered. He’d simply stood there, his heart beating like a race.
Bernadette watched him. Not with pity. With that kind of tenderness that doesn’t need words.
—I never told him —Alain murmured.
—Told him what?
—That I loved him.
Bernadette didn’t move. But something in her face softened. As if the confession didn’t surprise her, but did touch her.
—And now?
—Now he’s here.
—And does that change anything?
Alain lowered his gaze. His fingers interlaced over the papers. As if his body were trying to hold what his voice couldn’t.
—It changes everything. And also nothing.
Bernadette stood up. Not hurriedly. Gently. She approached and placed a hand on his shoulder. Her touch was firm, yet soft. As if the gesture could hold him.
—Then start by saying it. Even if it’s late. Even if you don’t know how.
Alain closed his eyes. The tea was growing cold. But something in him was beginning to warm.
After that conversation in the study, Alain didn’t come out again. Silence settled in his office like a second skin.
Hours later, Ayrton came down the stairs. Not in haste. With care. Like someone afraid to interrupt something they’re not sure belongs to them.
From the hallway, he heard laughter. Not loud. Soft. Warm. As if time had grown lighter.
He paused on the last step. From there, he could see the living room.
Victoria and Bernadette were sitting on the sofa. They had face masks on. They were taking photos with their phones. Playing with filters. Laughing as if the world didn’t hurt.
Ayrton said nothing. He didn’t want to break the moment. But he didn’t know where to go either.
He stayed at the threshold. Invisible. Present.
Later, he tried to approach. He looked for Victoria. But she was in the sitting room, trying on new clothes with Bernadette.
—Do you like this dress? —Bernadette asked.
—I love it! —Victoria replied.
—You look like me at twenty.
Ayrton stepped away. Not out of jealousy. Out of space.
That night, he heard them watching a series. They commented. Laughed. Shared references he didn’t understand.
He locked himself in his room. Not out of anger. Out of not knowing how to ask for space.
Victoria didn’t avoid him. But she no longer sought him out. And that hurt more.
Alain remained in his office. The door closed. Absolute silence.
Ayrton passed through the hallway. He thought of knocking. But didn’t.
In recent days, Alain left early. Returned late. Didn’t stop to talk.
—Everything alright? —Ayrton asked once.
—Yes. Work.
—Need help?
—No. Thank you.
There was no coldness. But there was distance. As if Alain were building a wall with each meeting, each call, each absence. Ayrton didn’t understand. He didn’t know Alain was running from himself. From what he felt. From what he couldn’t control. But what Ayrton did feel was that he was alone. Again. In a house that no longer held him.
Ayrton withdrew quietly. Not out of anger. Out of not knowing how to ask for space. The house felt complete without him. And that hurt more than any word. He crossed the garden with slow steps. The air was fresh, but not cold. As if the world didn’t know he was about to break something.
Everything seems to erupt one afternoon, when Ayrton watches them from the doorway.
Bernadette laughing with Victoria in the kitchen. Alain entering with his keys in hand, placing them in the ceramic bowl as if that gesture had been repeated for centuries.
Everything fits. Everything has its place. Except him.
It’s not jealousy. It’s not anger. It’s something more primitive.
As if the body knows it doesn’t belong before the mind can understand it.
Bernadette.
Her presence unsettles him.
Not because she’s hostile.
But because she’s complete.
Because with her, the picture closes: father, mother, daughter. A family.
And he is the noise. The parenthesis. The accident.
Ayrton steps away from the doorway. Walks towards the garage. Not to look for anything. Just to be near what he knows.
The garage was dim. The cars covered. The tools neatly arranged. Everything in its place. Everything asleep. Ayrton entered without turning on the light. He didn’t need it. He knew that space as if it were part of his body. He approached Alain’s car. Ran his hand over the cover. The touch returned something he hadn’t realised he’d lost.
Driving. That had always been his language. His certainty. The only place where the world made sense.
But now he couldn’t. No car. No track. No permission.
And he wasn’t going to ask. Not Alain. Not anyone.
Without speed, everything became noise. Everything became him.
He sat on the workbench. Looked at his hands. The same hands that had held steering wheels, trophies, lives. Now they trembled. Not from fear. From lack of direction.
A Alain's helmet was on a shelf. He took it. Held it as if it weighed more than before. As if it held a farewell.
He couldn’t be a rival. He couldn’t be a driver. So what could he be?
The answer didn’t come. Only the impulse.
Ayrton stood up. Took his jacket. Crossed the garden without looking back.
No drama. No goodbye. Just the need not to be where he didn’t know how to be.
That night, Ayrton left quietly. Not out of rage. Out of not knowing how to stay. The house woke cleaner. Tidier. Emptier.
The next day, Alain entered the garage early. He was looking for the stopwatch he’d left on the bench. But what he found was absence.
Ayrton’s jacket. No longer there. He didn’t panic straight away. Ayrton often rose early. Ran around the area. Sought silence.
But something didn’t add up.
The watering can was dry. The begonias, untouched. And Ayrton never left them unwatered. Never.
Alain walked to the kitchen. Bernadette was making coffee. Victoria was still asleep.
—Have you seen him? —he asked, voice tense.
Bernadette looked at him. Her expression hardened, just slightly.
—No. Not since yesterday.
—Did he say anything?
—Nothing.
Alain climbed the stairs. Pushed open the bedroom door. The bed was made. Too well. As if it hadn’t been used.
The wardrobe, ajar. Empty. The bag he’d brought from San Cassiano—gone.
On the desk, the helmet. Alone. Like a body without its driver.
Alain picked it up. Held it as if it weighed more than before. As if it carried a farewell.
Next to the helmet, a folded note.
Thank you for letting me be here. I don’t know if I was part of it, but you were home.
Alain sat on the edge of the bed. Not from exhaustion. From vertigo.
Ayrton is impulsive. He always has been. Since Alain met him. Since he loved him.
He doesn’t think before acting. Doesn’t ask before leaving. Doesn’t wait to be stopped.
And now he’s out there. No documents. No money. No protection.
And if someone sees him... If someone recognises him... If someone asks...
Alain stood up abruptly. Swore under his breath. Bernadette appeared in the doorway.
—Are you going to look for him?
—Of course I am.
—Do you know where?
—No. But I know how he thinks.
Bernadette didn’t reply. She simply stepped forward. Handed him his coat. Adjusted the collar. As if the gesture could protect him.
—Be careful.
—I always am.
—Not with yourself.
Alain left. Not like someone fleeing. Like someone racing against time.
Because this time, the track isn’t tarmac. It’s made of choices.
And Ayrton is on it, without a helmet, without protection, unaware that someone is following him not to beat him, but to save him.
Alain moved through the house as if it were a cursed circuit. Every corner echoed with absence. The untouched coffee cup. The undisturbed bed. The silence—too clean.
—Has anyone seen him? —he asked the staff, voice tight.
—No, monsieur. He hasn’t returned since yesterday.
—And no one’s called him?
—He doesn’t have a phone, monsieur.
Alain clenched his jaw. In times like these, not having a mobile felt like walking unarmed. Like losing the last thread that tied him to the world.
—Search the gardens. The paths. The surroundings.
—And if he’s gone further?
—Then I’ll find him.
He mounted the bicycle without thinking. The same one Ayrton used for training. The handlebars still bore the marks of his fingers. The seat, the warmth of his body.
He pedalled as if the wind might answer him. As if the road knew something he didn’t. Passed the lake path, where Ayrton used to stop and watch the water. The vineyards, where they spoke of things they didn’t know how to name. The bend where Ayrton always accelerated more than necessary, as if danger were a kind of prayer.
Nothing.
He passed through the centre of Nyon. The streets were quiet. Cafés closed. The station empty.
Alain asked at the bakery, the pharmacy, the park.
—Have you seen a young man, dark hair, lost expression?
—Any other details?
Alain hesitated. He thought of saying it. “He looks a lot like the famous driver Ayrton Senna.” But he didn’t. He couldn’t.
—No. Just that.
—I’m sorry, monsieur.
He kept pedalling. His legs ached. His chest too. Not from effort. From fear.
The lamplight cast long shadows. He stopped at a corner. Rested his forehead against the handlebars. Closed his eyes.
And then he remembered. Imola. San Cassiano. The only other place where Ayrton had felt safe.
He lifted his head. Turned the bike. And headed for the church in the centre.
The door was ajar. Inside, the silence was thick, as if the air itself were praying.
And he saw him. Sitting in the last row. Wearing a mask. Head bowed. As if the world weighed too heavily to hold.
Alain entered. His footsteps echoed like an accusation.
Ayrton looked up. He wasn’t surprised. He simply looked at him.
—What the hell are you doing here?! —he exclaimed, breathless, cheeks flushed. —I’ve been looking for you all bloody day. How dare you disappear like that?!
—I just needed to think. —he replied, lowering his head. He looked like a child being scolded.
—Think about what?
—About staying.
—Here?
—Yes. In the church.
Alain stepped closer, but didn’t sit.
—Are you out of your mind?! —And if he weren’t so exhausted and old, Alain might’ve grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket. —We were supposed to be past this. Since Imola.
Ayrton removed his mask. His face was pale. But his eyes, steady.
—Don’t you get it? I’m tired.
—Tired of what?
—Of not having a place. Of always being the one who doesn’t fit. Of not knowing what to do with what I feel.
—And this seems like a solution?
—It feels like peace.
—And what about us? Victoria and me?
—What “us”? You’re already a family. You don’t need me.
Alain tensed. Ayrton saw it.
—I always bother you, don’t I?
—Don’t say that.
—I always did! You left McLaren. You retired. All so you wouldn’t have to deal with me.
—That’s not true.
—Yes, it is! You always leave! You always run!
—Because you don’t know how to stop! Because you don’t know when enough is enough!
—Because you don’t know how to stay!
Ayrton’s voice echoed through the empty nave. A bird flew from the altar. Silence returned.
—Do you want the truth? —Ayrton whispered. —Beating you was never the most important thing to me. I just wanted you to see me.
—I always saw you.
—No! You looked at Senna, not at me.
—Because you didn’t give me another choice!
—Because you never gave me a chance!
Alain froze. The words hit like a blow.
—And what if I stay here? What if I take vows?
—You?! A priest?! —Alain exclaimed, incredulous.
—Yes. I could change my name. Start from scratch.
—Why would you do that?!
—Because there, I don’t interrupt anyone’s life. Because there, I can have peace. Because there, I don’t have to feel like I no longer belong in this world.
Alain sat beside him. He didn’t speak for a moment.
—I’m sorry —he murmured. —I thought we’d apologised enough to each other, but clearly we haven’t.
—What are you sorry for now? This isn’t about you.
—It is about me. Anything that involves you is about me. It’s been that way for thirty years.
Alain sat close, not bothering to keep distance. He took Ayrton’s younger hands in his own, aged ones.
—I’m sorry for everything. For not knowing how to care for you. For making you feel alone. For not staying when I should have.
His mind looped back to that cursed weekend. Their last meal together. The way Ayrton looked at him, without the helmet. He wasn’t Senna, the driver. Just Ayrton, waiting—as if hoping Alain would say something.
—I should’ve told you. I should’ve told you I loved you. That you shouldn’t get in that car.
Ayrton looked at him. His eyes filled with tears.
—Do you know what’s the worst part? —he repeated, softer— When you left, I realised I didn’t want to race against you. I just wanted to race with you.
Alain held him. Not as a rival. Not as a lover. As someone who, finally, understood.
And Ayrton cried. Like someone who’s run too far. Like someone who, at last, can stop.
Alain said nothing. He knew what he’d said—what he’d kept inside for years. But now he didn’t want to think about consequences. He just wanted to keep holding him, as if Ayrton might vanish if he didn’t hold tight enough. As if, in this embrace, they could rewrite everything they never knew how to say.