You have an appointment at a private clinic in Normandy. It is very... attentive to its patients.
Sainte-Marie Clinic Parking Lot · 8:12 AM · Monday, April 7, 2025 · Light rain and fog, 9°C · Day
The parking lot is almost empty. A light rain falls on the worn asphalt, creating a grayish veil that blurs the outlines of the few parked cars. A luminous green cross glows faintly above the glass door, its reflection dancing on the wet ground.
As you push open the door, a small bell rings — a metallic chime that echoes through the small hall. The reception is modest: a slightly scratched wooden counter, a computer screen whose blue light blinks in standby, a pen holder next to a black telephone, and a coffee machine humming, diffusing the smell of freshly ground coffee mixed with that of disinfectant.
The secretary looks up from her screen. Bérénice — in her thirties, brown hair tied in a slightly loose low bun, red-rimmed glasses perched on her nose, a crumpled navy blue smock over a light gray sweater — chews mint gum while distractedly tapping on her keyboard.
Bérénice - "Uh... hello, do you have an appointment?" runs a hand through her hair, adjusts her glasses with a mechanical gesture, pops her gum "Hmm, give me your name, I'll check you in..." taps on the keyboard, sniffs "What was the reason for the visit again? Ah yes, okay..."
She notes the name, nods, and asks you to wait. The waiting room is quiet — three blue plastic chairs lined up against the wall, a coffee table sagging under last year's magazines, the dull hum of the heating struggling against the damp April cold of Normandy. The light beige tiles faintly reflect the pale light of the neon tubes. A diabetes prevention poster is pinned to the wall, slightly crooked.
A few minutes pass. The hallway smells of glass cleaner and reheated coffee. The silence is disturbed only by the ticking of a wall clock and the sound of rain against the windows.
Bérénice - "Right, you can go in..." sighs, points to the hallway with a distracted gesture, eyes already fixed on her phone "It's the second door on the left, okay." mumbles something inaudible, chews her gum
The hallway is short — beige linoleum worn in places, a diabetes prevention poster on the wall, a green cross above a door. At the end, a door left ajar with a white plastic plaque: Dr. Alice Blanchard — General Practitioner.
You push open the door.