From: [email protected] To: Sarah Kumar <[email protected]> Date: 2110-07-01T02:11:32+0200 Subject: Termination Notice of Rental Agreement

Dear Ms. Kumar,

This letter serves to confirm the conclusion of our rental agreement concerning the property located in Aix-en-Provence, France.

The deposits due to you will be refunded to your registered account, minus any necessary deductions, following the property's inspection.

It has been a pleasure collaborating with you. We hope you consider us again if your travels bring you back to Aix.

Best, Dominique Monfils Account Manager De Gaulle Property Management

[Note: This message has been automatically translated from French to English by GCloud, as per your settings. The original text is attached to this message.]

After their lunch at Chez Ellen, Sarah and Danny had arranged to meet again for breakfast the following day. Sarah exited her car at the corner near the Ansouis bakery, where Danny awaited her, leaning against the robust trunk of a plane tree, hands tucked into his pockets, beaming at her. The French boy from the previous day now seemed distinctly American.

“You look lovely,” he remarked. “Those shoes are great.”

“Thanks,” she replied, feeling slightly flustered. Sarah had swapped her retro American sneakers for a pair of subtle French slip-ons she spotted in a shop window in Aix. Determined to be more assertive with him, she was surprised to find herself smiling.

Danny grinned wider.

“Come on,” he said, gesturing with a nod. “I’ve reserved a table.”

Following him, Sarah found a table in the small plaza where she had sat the day prior, beside the bakery and La Poste. Danny waved at a woman seated at a nearby table, who acknowledged him with a nod, indicating she’d be there when ready. Danny smiled back, then leaned back comfortably in his chair.

A gentle breeze rustled the large leaves overhead, and reflected sunlight bounced off the stucco walls of the bakery under its terracotta roof, making them appear cleaner and fresher than the town's older structures.

“I love it here,” Sarah said.

The waitress approached to take their orders. Danny opted for a double espresso and a pain au chocolat, while Sarah hesitated before ordering a café au lait and, after a moment’s thought, added an almond croissant. Normally, she skipped breakfast, especially sweets, but she wanted to engage Danny in conversation, convincing herself to follow his lead.

“I enjoy it here too,” Danny replied once the waitress left. “But it’s hard to believe this place was a parking lot when I first arrived. What a waste of space for cars.”

The term 'parking lot' felt like an outdated Americanism, long replaced by British 'car park' and then 'taxi park,' as personal vehicles faded from public consciousness.

“Tell me more about Suckers’ Roulette,” Sarah prompted. “You mentioned it yesterday.”

One corner of Danny’s mouth lifted in amusement. He studied her for a moment in silence before gazing off into the distance.

“That’s a concept from long ago,” he explained. “I blogged about it or posted to a listserv or something. That’s where you found it, right?”

She maintained a neutral expression.

“You did,” he confirmed with a smile. “Anyway, I was trying to capture this sensation we all experienced before rejuvenation became commonplace. It was this feeling in middle age that it required more and more effort, and it became increasingly costly to stay healthy and alive. More exercise, more focus on everything. When I was twenty, I never imagined I’d be so preoccupied with the functioning of my digestive system thirty years later.”

“Did Suckers’ Roulette ever gain traction as a longevity model?”

“No. Ultimately, its value was more metaphorical. But I’d argue that the line between models and metaphors isn’t as distinct as poets and scientists would like to claim.”

“And now?” Sarah inquired, raising her eyebrows.

“Now what?” he replied.

“Do you still pay close attention to your digestive health?”

“Ha! No,” he said, raising his pastry as emphasis before taking a bite.

“So what changed?” Sarah pressed. “You act as if this transformation just happened randomly, but you must have done something. There must be some new treatment or approach you adopted?”

“Don’t assume I haven’t pondered that, but there’s nothing to pinpoint. I did opt for extra treatments when it seemed like my time was running out. Paid for them out-of-pocket, which isn’t unusual. Many who can afford it seek additional treatments when their insurance only covers hospice care. It rarely pays off. But my treatments were standard: anti-senescence vaccine boosts, myocardial gene therapy, liver regeneration therapy—stuff like that.”

“Caloric restriction?”

Danny laughed and held up the end of his pain au chocolat. “I’ve heard of people resorting to that when they reach hospice. You might live a little longer, but you’ll wish you hadn’t.”

He finished the last bite of his pastry, drained his espresso, leaned back, and stared up at the leaves above. Silence enveloped them as he seemed to drift into thought, and Sarah allowed the pause to linger.

“The thing is,” he finally said, “I never felt old. Most people nearing hospice time exhibit signs of aging; they become creaky and gray. When asked, they often describe how ‘old’ they feel. But internally, we all perceive ourselves as teenagers trapped in adult bodies. Yet, at a hundred and ten, I didn’t feel significantly different than I did at seventy—or fifty, for that matter. Honestly, I felt better at one-ten than I did at fifty, as I hadn’t yet started rejuvenation.”

“What do you think that signifies?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe the process, whatever has happened to me, had already commenced? When I arrived here, I anticipated dying soon, yet I felt quite healthy. It took several years before I noticed I was looking younger.”

“What does your doctor say?” Sarah asked, catching a glimpse of a startled expression flit across Danny’s face, as if he had wandered down the wrong path in a daydream and suddenly realized. But it vanished as quickly as it appeared.

“I don’t have much need to visit a doctor,” Danny replied, spotting the waitress and waving her over.

“But it’s been thirty years,” Sarah pressed. “Are you saying you haven’t seen a doctor in all that time?”

The waitress approached, speaking quickly in French. The only word Sarah could decipher was “Daniel,” pronounced as “Danielle” would be in English.

“Oui. Merci,” Danny responded.

The waitress smiled, nodded, tapped her tablet, and departed without any payment exchanged.

“Shall we take a walk?” Danny suggested, pushing back his chair and standing.

“Wait.” Sarah remained seated. “You haven’t answered my question. Is there a doctor who is aware of what has happened to you?”

“Why is that significant?”

“It is significant! If someone else knows, it matters. I assume your family is aware, at least your children. But if a doctor is keeping your situation secret, that’s important. That’s news.”

“Every country has laws preventing doctors from disclosing patient information.”

“Sure, but doctors can still write case studies without revealing identities.”

“If a doctor penned a paper about me, how long before someone like you figured out who I was?”

“True, but still, don’t you think a doctor has an obligation to…” she hesitated, thinking. “Wait. Are you still receiving treatments? Rejuvenation treatments?”

Danny smiled. “It’s not uncommon for people to start anti-senescence vaccinations in their twenties nowadays.”

“But not the other treatments. Not liver regeneration, heart muscle therapy, or anything else that might have caused… you to happen. It’s been thirty years. If you had reverted to the health of a twenty-year-old and began aging again, you would look fifty by now. But you aren’t aging. There’s a doctor who knows your identity. A doctor is treating you in secret.”

“Well,” Danny laughed. “This is progress. It’s clear you no longer think I’m just a kid trying to deceive you. Come walk with me.”

Sarah stayed put. “Answer my question.”

Danny sighed. “Look, even if, hypothetically, a doctor knew my secret, would I reveal them to you after all the trouble I’ve taken to keep it hidden? I mean, we’ve barely just met.” He stepped back from the table, shrugged, and raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I’m going to walk now. You’re welcome to join me. I’d like it if you did, but I can’t force you.”

He turned and walked away.

“Damn.”

She caught up with him as they reached the street. Upon seeing her, he smiled but said nothing. They walked down the slope of Boulevard des Platanes toward the roundabout where Sarah had first entered the village. To their right, beyond a stone parapet, a steep drop revealed a small gravel lot. The taxi that had brought Sarah was waiting there, seemingly an unlikely spot, but who could understand the mysteries of the car service’s routing AI? Nearby, a sleek black private Mercedes sat, charging in the sun. Sarah wondered if it belonged to Danny; he could afford it.

“Do you expect me to believe you just won the longevity lottery?” she asked. “Through no effort of your own, you get to live indefinitely?”

“Not indefinitely,” he replied. “Even if I don’t start aging again or suffer some unforeseen side effect, eventually something will take me. War. A pandemic. An untreatable malignant tumor. A bad fall. If you keep rolling the dice long enough, you’ll hit snake-eyes. Even if you have a hundred dice and the snake has a hundred eyes.”

“Still, that could be a long time from now. It’s far better than what the rest of us get.”

“Is it?” He walked on a few steps without speaking. “My wife has been gone for thirty years. Every friend from my youth has passed away. My children are now centenarians. A lottery ticket is a fitting metaphor,” he said. “Most lottery winners end up friendless, bankrupt, and miserable.” He halted, resting both hands on the parapet as he gazed into the distance. Beyond the gravel lot lay fields of an unidentifiable green crop, green hills with terra cotta roofs and the slender spires of cypress trees, and then the blue sky of Provence.

“No father should outlive his children,” he declared.

“Isn’t that a reason to stop hiding? To allow yourself to be studied? If scientists could uncover what has happened to you, perhaps they could replicate it in others, including your children. All this loss could be averted.”

At this, he seemed to snap out of his reverie. “At the cost of other losses,” he said. “I don’t believe you’ve deeply considered what it would mean for society if everyone on Earth shared my condition. There’s no free lunch.”

He resumed walking down the hill, and Sarah followed, worried that he was angry, but he turned and smiled when she caught up. “I don’t want to dwell on dark inevitabilities on such a lovely day.”

“Will you go on record with me?” Sarah asked. “If not today, then tomorrow or sometime this week?”

“What’s the rush? We only met yesterday. Indulge a lonely old man. Stay a while.”

He looked at her, his expression somber, youthful color still in his cheeks.

Sarah burst out laughing.

Danny’s demeanor broke, and he smiled.

“See?” she said. “You can’t even say it with a straight face.”

“I know. I thought I had it down for a moment.”

“The truth is, my grant money has run out,” Sarah admitted. It wasn’t his concern, and she sensed she might be revealing too much, but their laughter had eased her guard. If she wanted him to be open, she should reciprocate with her own honesty. “I only planned to stay until June. My apartment contract in Aix ended yesterday. I’m now paying for a hotel out of my own pocket.”

“You should stay with me,” Danny suggested.

“Ha. Right.”

“I’m completely serious.”

She gave him a sidelong glance.

“That’s not a sexual proposition,” he added. “And I’m sure you’d bolt if you thought it were. Chez Ellen has two bedrooms and two bathrooms. You’d have your own space and a lock on the door, if necessary.”

She hesitated.

“Most reporters desire access,” Danny said. “It’s hard to get more access than that.”

“They also need distance from their subjects. I think it would be inappropriate.”

“Is it?” he queried. “Didn’t Hemingway have a biographer who lived with him, accompanied him on his boat, and met his friends?”

Sarah remained silent.

“Regardless, the offer stands.”

They reached the bottom of the hill and turned right, away from the village. They strolled along the gravel path adjacent to the road, beneath a row of grand platanes with trunks far too large for two people to embrace. Across the road lay a flat, rectangular lawn, separated from the road by a low, ancient stone wall. A cypress-lined driveway wound around the back of the village and up to the chateau at the top of the hill.

Ahead, at the junction where the D56 road branched off toward Pertuis, stood a two-story house encircled by a tall wall. The compound was somewhat detached from the village yet still part of it, its tile roofs and stucco walls slightly cleaner than those in the village, but otherwise similar. From the gate, a casually dressed woman led a line of small children, hand-in-hand, across the road toward the chateau field.

“That’s the Ansouis school,” Danny noted. “Those kids are the maternelle: a combined kindergarten and preschool.” He counted them from a distance with his raised finger. “When I came here a century ago, there were forty children in the maternelle. Now there are nine.”

“I read somewhere,” Sarah said, “that you grew up with about thirty-five kids on your block.”

“Correct. Back then, three kids per family was average, and some families had four, five, six, or even seven. You don’t see that anymore. That’s my point. Rejuvenation has extended women's fertility, but what happened? Birth rates declined. In the twentieth century, we conquered childhood illnesses and reduced infant mortality, leading to lower birth rates. In the twenty-first century, we prolonged our lifespans, and birth rates fell again. As the need for a safety net against mortality diminished, people opted for fewer children. It’s a natural balance. As life expectancy increases, there’s less incentive to compete with one’s offspring.”

“Or,” Sarah suggested, “people observe the state of the world and decide fewer inhabitants might be preferable.”

“Perhaps. But as the population ages, society has grown more risk-averse. Young people think: I’m young, I’m enjoying life, I have plenty of time, so they delay having kids. Meanwhile, older individuals feel: I’m comfortable. Children are risky. Messy. Unpredictable. They grow into their own identities, despite our best efforts.”

Danny halted. “Listen to that.” In the field across the street, the children scampered and squealed, playing a wild version of tag.

“I adore that sound,” he said with a smile. “Children playing. How often would we hear that if everyone lived a thousand years instead of a hundred?”

Before Sarah could respond, a young woman’s voice called from across the street.

“Bonjour, Danny!”

The schoolteacher sat on the low wall separating the chateau lawn from the road. Children in her care continued to chase each other in the grass, laughing and shouting. Half-turned to keep an eye on them, she waved at Danny, smiling, and beckoned him over.

Danny waved back, smiling, but his demeanor was more reserved and guarded than it had been with Sarah. She noted this change with surprising satisfaction.

“Bonjour,” Danny greeted as they approached.

“Bonjour,” the woman replied, her dark eyes briefly registering Sarah before returning to Danny. She launched into a rapid-fire stream of French, each sentence rising in inflection.

Danny responded with a series of one-word answers: “Oui. Non. Non. Oui.”

Sarah wished she had worn her earbuds. Even without translation, the schoolteacher’s portion of the conversation flowed like music in a silent film—a sonata of unfulfilled hope.

With her glossy black hair neatly styled in a bun and simple, flattering attire, the woman exuded an effortlessly chic look that Sarah envied.

Danny interjected a longer sentence. Sarah recognized her name, as he was making introductions. The teacher directed a polite smile toward her.

“Sarah, this is Laurence,” Danny said, pronouncing the ‘r’ in a way that seemed uniquely French. She had heard that an American could live in France for a century and still not master the ‘r’ sound. If Danny had mispronounced it, Laurence displayed no sign.

“She teaches the maternelle,” Danny continued. “She lives in Pertuis but visits the village occasionally.”

“Bonjour,” Sarah said.

“Bonjour,” Laurence replied, followed by a few more words in French.

“She says she admires your shoes,” Danny translated with a smile.

“Thank you,” Sarah responded. “You look wonderful. I wish I could manage a look like that every day.”

“Merci,” Laurence replied. After exchanging obligatory pleasantries, her attention returned to Danny, and Sarah doubted they would focus on her again.

Before Laurence could speak, Danny interjected something in French, signaling his desire to wrap things up. Laurence placed her hand on his arm, launching into another string of questions. Sarah could easily guess their content: Would he be in the village later? Would he attend the market on Sunday?

Danny’s reply was brief, whatever it was, before he stepped back from her hand, smiling as he said, “Au revoir.”

“Au revoir, Danny.”

“See you around,” Sarah added, smiling as she turned with Danny. They crossed the road again and began walking back toward the village, shaded by the trees.

“She’s attractive,” Sarah commented once they were out of earshot.

“Indeed.”

“She’s interested in you.”

“Yes,” Danny conceded. Then, after a few more steps, he added, “It’s a problem.”

“Is it? I’d have thought that with you being… who you are, you’d be a hit with the ladies.”

“Don’t misunderstand,” he replied. “I’m just like any other man. We’re all drawn to youth, whether in women, men, or both. Any man who claims otherwise is lying. It’s instinctual. Fortunately, most of us can utilize our advanced human reasoning to manage those impulses. We suppress the urge to act on attraction, even to the point of denying its existence.”

“But it does exist. And you’re right; when I first… uh… transformed, I attracted a lot of attention from women. There was one here in the village, in fact, twenty to twenty-five years ago. She was even more enchanting than Laurence. Blonde, athletic, adventurous, always smiling. And, if you don’t mind my saying so, very intrigued by the young American with wisdom beyond his years.”

“What happened?”

“At first, it was wonderful. Fantastic. She was young, beautiful, captivating, and I, having regained my youth, convinced myself that I was indeed young again. We threw ourselves into each other. I told her I was her age, as I didn’t know what else to say. However, after a couple of years, it began to wear thin. I grew weary of watching her navigate adult life skills that I had long since mastered. I became impatient, condescending. I interrupted her, dismissed her feelings, belittled her discoveries. I knew I shouldn’t, but it was so dull. Confused, she blamed herself, trying to meet my unreasonable expectations. It only made things worse. She was a fighter, not a quitter, and endured far longer than she should have. But eventually, she had too much self-respect to tolerate such treatment. One day, she left.”

As he spoke, they reached the roundabout. Instead of turning left to ascend back to the plaza and bakery, they turned right, passing through a stone tunnel beneath the private drive leading to the Chateau.

“Poor girl. That must have been tough on her,” Sarah said, her voice echoing in the dark tunnel.

Danny shrugged. “It was just two years out of a century of life. Everyone experiences bad relationships. My wife used to say that you have to get the bad ones out of the way before you can find the good one.”

“What became of the girl?”

“Not sure. She’d be nearing fifty by now. I can’t exactly visit her, even if I knew where she was.”

They emerged from the cool darkness and turned left onto Rue de France, climbing into the village from the rear. The chateau's battlements loomed above them to the left, while the ground sloped down on the right. The houses on the right appeared quite old yet well-maintained, occupied at least part of the year. Near the hill's summit, one house had crumbled into ruin, a decaying chimney and three partial stone walls remaining. A mature tree stood within the remnants, and Sarah was struck by the idea of a house as a living entity, animated by the people who inhabit and care for it. When their spirit departs, the house begins to die and decay, much like a body, albeit at a slower pace. Most of the homes in this town had been living for hundreds of years.

Danny had become quiet as they ascended. Sarah studied him, but he said nothing. A deep sadness seemed to envelop him after discussing the girl he had mistreated long ago, though he didn’t express it.

The hill leveled out. The church and chateau walls rose high above them on the left. On the right, the view opened up to vineyards and the Luberon mountains in the distance. A dry breeze blew in from the west, shaking the treetops beyond the parapet, cooler than in recent weeks yet still imbued with summer warmth. It reached Sarah, carrying the gentle sound of wind chimes from a nearby home, evoking mixed feelings and half-forgotten memories of experiences from long ago: the exhilaration of bursting out into the verdant summer from the schoolhouse door in June, the bittersweetness of the cooling air of late August, and the anticipation of fall, with new classes and the return of responsibilities.

After a brief descent, they arrived at Chez Ellen. Upon entering, Danny seemed to shake off his melancholy, bustling around as he had the previous day, opening shutters and doors to let in light and fresh air, bringing the place to life.

“Coffee? Espresso?” he asked.

“Yes, please.”

“Wonderful. Have a seat on the terrace, and I’ll bring it out,” he said, turning his focus to the chrome machine she had noticed in his kitchen the day before.

Instead of going outside, Sarah stayed inside, finding it difficult to look away from him. He ground the beans, tamped them down, and pulled shots into two stoneware demitasse cups with matching saucers. What captivated Sarah wasn’t just the youthful way his body moved, nor how the shirt stretched over his shoulder as he reached and retracted his arm. It was a focused, quiet intensity of purpose and efficiency—no wasted time or motion. He started the grinder and retrieved the cups while it ran. As the machine pumped out the first shots, he turned to get a tray and set it on the counter, placing tiny spoons, the sugar bowl, and two small chocolates on it. The machine kept running while he worked, ensuring the tray was ready when the second shot finished.

He lifted the tray, turned, and spotted her leaning silently in the rough-timbered doorway. He smiled, and she smiled back. Danny said nothing but tilted his head, pointing his nose toward the terrace door and nodding.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay here tonight?” he asked.

To be continued…

[Story Rewind: ? Chapter 1 | ?? Table of Contents]

[ Skippy von Alte Welt, Seymour Toa, Tanya E. Denhere, The Blind Study, Lupin, like the chair, Jeff Suwak, Lisa Ford, Rhomi Elijah, Fox Kerry, Kathryn Farrago, Mark Tulin, Alex Mell-Taylor, Hussan Ara, Gun Roswell, Med Reader, pencil & ashes, Eva Rtology — Apologies for the lengthy hiatus from this story, which turned into almost two years. I wouldn’t blame anyone for losing interest at this point. Nevertheless, I’m still working on it; here’s the next chapter.]