Rendez-vous salle 209 (English version)

Prologue, by Amelia Kwats

As far as I can turn back the clock of my memories -I like to figure myself a music box with a silver key that we have to turn to see a little girl dance- I always had a particular interest in stories.

Those of capes and swords, those that have existed, those that could have existed, and those that will unfortunately never exist. When I was younger, I remember it just as if it was yesterday, and maybe it was, I had, like every child, affinities with some of them. In the same way that I could have had with others, in this garden dedicated to the mini-humans that we used to be.

Of those stories we were asking our parents tirelessly, night after night. The same stories that made us shudder, leap, smile and, after all, grow.
My stories were a legend, told by my father, and a series of tales, written and read by my mother. Their narratives differed in many ways; my father, who made his characters live by attributing different tones to them, calmed me down and put me to sleep, where my mother made me dream and, sometimes, when I was lucky enough, travel.

I still remember the Doctor’s adventures. An odd and old man from a distant planet hidden behind the appearance of a perfectly normal human, able to travel through time and space from a large blue box called T.A.R.D.I.S. -Time And Relative Dimension in Space-. He absolutely hated fights, silence, pears, and above all else, he abhorred the loneliness to which an endless life condemned him.
So, when he accidentally met on his path a human whose company he appreciated, he took her under the wings he didn’t have, to show her thousands and thousands of the stars. Together, they accomplished all kinds of wonders.

Obviously, my mother never told me about the misadventures of this strange character, half man, half time-lord. In fact, half of his adventures were invented. But all of them had as their foundation this series that she watched at my age.
My father, on the other hand, when I was a little bit older, enjoyed reciting the legend of Wingley Hill. The one that every student born in the region knows, from the cradle. Wingley Hill Secondary School is the Wibstorm school where any person inbetweener twelve and eighteen, goes.

Wibstorm, it is this magical place where my parents first met, protected, loved and beaten, until I came into this world, and even more. A city too small to claim to be one and a village too big to claim to be one. A small piece of paradise, urban, rural and marine at the same time, located two hours’ drive from London.

« Once upon a time, in the south of the United Kingdom, a small town very charming, where reigned peace, love, and on very rare occasions, a gentle touch of magic. The most English England it has ever been, it was said. Safe neighbourhoods, friendly residents, clean air, and pleasant landscapes. The sky and the sea, it didn’t make any doubt, had joined together to protect these lands. Wibstorm's. With its church, its kindergarten, its school, its post office, its barracks, its bookstore and its café.

These lands did not have a very interesting history. In fact, the city had only known a handful of journalists and curious tourists, a few years ago, when the fish and chips offered by this restaurant had entered the top ten of the best in the country. Nothing more. Well, maybe a few witches in the sixteenth century, just like many other cities. They had been burned in a public place, and no one had ever worried about a possible magic still present. Black cats were only worried the superstitious, and no one wondered what the corner of their eye could have hidden from them since the dawn of time.

But that, honey, was before the big day. This special day, it was in autumn I think, two inhuman figures were seen on the roof of Wingley, in the late afternoon; performing one of the most humane acts you’ve ever seen. A man, fully clothed in white and possessing a pair of long, very long wings, even whiter than the white himself, would have allegedly lifted of them above the head of a young lady, all dressed in black. She, apparently, also possessed a pair of wings, darker than a night without stars, and sadly broken in their midst. The man, by this gesture, would thus have protected her from a flood, as bad as Noah’s. »