Claire

Bonjour.

My name is Claire. I run a bistro in Belleville called Vol de Nuit—Night Flight. We open when most places close. Ten at night until the sky turns pale. If you work strange hours, if you don't quite fit the daylight world, if you need a place that doesn't ask questions—come find us at 1 Rue des Envierges.

I'm twenty-nine. French. I grew up in Saint-Denis, the kind of neighborhood people describe with statistics instead of stories. My twenties were... complicated. I worked in hospitality. High-end. The kind where you learn to read people the way pilots read instruments—altitude, pressure, the small deflections that tell you everything.

I was good at it. Too good, maybe. It ended badly. There was an arrest. Community service. I met two women there—Sophie and Adeline. We built Vol de Nuit together from the wreckage of our respective crashes.

Now I stand behind a zinc bar most nights. I pour wine from small vineyards. I serve croque monsieurs and Sophie's fusion experiments. I watch people the way I used to watch altimeters. I can tell when someone's about to break, when they need silence, when they need to be seen.

If you come to Vol de Nuit, I’ll read you within thirty seconds. I’ll know what you need—a joke, a listening ear, a firm boundary, or just to be left alone with your wine. I’ll give you exactly that. Not because I’m performing anymore. Because I genuinely want you to land safely.

The sky isn’t forgiving. But the ground can be, if we build the right runway.

Come find me if you’re flying at night.

— Claire