New York City, on a day marked by its ordi­nary bus­tle, serves as the back­drop to an extra­or­di­nary encounter between Addie and Luc. The city’s tow­er­ing sky­line, a tes­ta­ment to man’s ambi­tion, goes unno­ticed as Addie finds her­self cap­ti­vat­ed not by the con­crete giants but by the reflec­tion of Luc in the win­dow. The ten­sion between them is pal­pa­ble, stirred by cen­turies of his­to­ry and an intri­cate dance of pow­er and defi­ance. Their meet­ing unfolds at Le Coucou, a French haven in SoHo, cho­sen either for its culi­nary excel­lence or per­haps for its sen­ti­men­tal val­ue to Addie. Luc leads, but Addie main­tains her dis­tance, sig­nal­ing through her refusal to accept his hand that their dynam­ics have shift­ed, but the game is very much alive.

At Le Coucou, lux­u­ry is served in silence, their din­ner orches­trat­ed by Luc’s will—an unset­tling dis­play of his influ­ence. Despite the splen­dor, the empti­ness of the servers’ gazes haunts Addie, a stark reminder of Luc’s casu­al omnipo­tence. She chal­lenges this, prompt­ing a momen­tary release of the staff from his grip. Their con­ver­sa­tion mean­ders through the past, touch­ing upon mem­o­ries only they share. Luc probes, seek­ing vul­ner­a­bil­i­ties, while Addie guards her heart, wary of his inten­tions. Their dia­logue is a dance of its own, weav­ing through lay­ers of long­ing and loss, love entan­gled with pow­er.

Addie con­fronts Luc’s claims of love with skep­ti­cism, ques­tion­ing the authen­tic­i­ty of his feel­ings and the very nature of love itself. She argues that true love demands self­less­ness, a con­cept she believes Luc, with his god-like detach­ment, can­not com­pre­hend. Their exchange reveals deep scars, wounds inflict­ed by end­less years of soli­tude for Addie and a per­sis­tent obses­sion for Luc. Yet, amidst the con­tention, there’s an unspo­ken acknowl­edg­ment of their bond, com­plex and fraught with con­tra­dic­tions.

As the chap­ter comes to a close, the ambi­gu­i­ty of their rela­tion­ship lingers. Addie’s deci­sion to engage, to reveal her long­ing and con­front Luc’s asser­tions, sug­gests a turn­ing point. Yet, the path for­ward remains shroud­ed in uncer­tain­ty. Their his­to­ry is a tapes­try of beau­ty and manip­u­la­tion, affec­tion and con­trol, each thread as cru­cial as it is con­tentious. Luc embod­ies the con­tra­dic­tion of omnipo­tence ver­sus the human need for con­nec­tion, while Addie sym­bol­izes the resilience of the human spir­it, defi­ant in the face of obliv­ion.

The nar­ra­tive metic­u­lous­ly cap­tures the essence of a con­fronta­tion cen­turies in the mak­ing, set against the tran­sient back­drop of New York City—a city that, like their rela­tion­ship, is con­stant­ly evolv­ing yet fun­da­men­tal­ly unchanged.

Vil­lon-sur-Sarthe, a quaint vil­lage in France, stands as the back­drop for Addie LaRue’s return after years of absence. Her vis­it reveals a trans­formed town, its once famil­iar land­scapes and build­ings reshaped by the pas­sage of time and the hands of new inhab­i­tants. As she nav­i­gates the altered streets, Addie expe­ri­ences a pro­found dis­con­nec­tion from the place she once knew inti­mate­ly, reflect­ing on the imper­ma­nence of mem­o­ry and place. Despite the changes, the sight of an old yew tree near her child­hood home offers a fleet­ing moment of recog­ni­tion and nos­tal­gia.

The new occu­pants of Addie’s fam­i­ly home, unaware of its his­to­ry, live amidst the rem­nants of her past. Addie encoun­ters the young boys of the fam­i­ly, engag­ing in a brief inter­ac­tion that rein­forces her ghost­ly exis­tence. This encounter prompts a vis­it to the ceme­tery where a tree she plant­ed over Estele’s grave years ago stands tall, serv­ing as a tan­gi­ble mark­er of the time that has passed.

Wan­der­ing through the vil­lage, Addie revis­its the site of Estele’s now-ruined home, con­front­ed with the ambiva­lence of per­ma­nence and change. A chance meet­ing with the old­er of the two boys she saw ear­li­er allows her to play­ful­ly embrace the role of a witch, adding lay­ers to the myths that envel­op her.

Amidst the ruins and the encroach­ing woods, Addie reflects on her endur­ing exis­tence and the con­tin­u­ous cycle of change and decay. Luc, a con­stant pres­ence in her life, appears, chal­leng­ing her rea­sons for return­ing to Vil­lon-sur-Sarthe. Their encounter high­lights Addie’s resilience and her refusal to suc­cumb to the weari­ness of her immor­tal life, despite Luc’s temp­ta­tions. In this chap­ter, Addie’s jour­ney through Vil­lon-sur-Sarthe serves as a metaphor for her eter­nal strug­gle with change, mem­o­ry, and the desire for belong­ing.

In the heart of New York City, on a crisp March day, an extra­or­di­nary event trans­forms the High Line, a pop­u­lar ele­vat­ed park built along an old rail­way stretch­ing from Thir­ti­eth to Twelfth Street in Man­hat­tan. Unlike its typ­i­cal ambiance of leisure and urban seren­i­ty, the High Line morphs into a vivid, eclec­tic art space, rechris­tened as “The Arti­fact.” This spec­ta­cle reshapes a por­tion of the park into a labyrinth of fan­tas­ti­cal visu­als, draw­ing vis­i­tors into a three-dimen­sion­al kalei­do­scope of intri­cate designs and vibrant hues.

Upon enter­ing this enchant­ed realm, atten­dees are greet­ed with col­ored rub­ber bands, each hue grant­i­ng access to var­i­ous seg­ments of the exhi­bi­tion named as whim­si­cal­ly as theme park rides: Sky, Voice, Mem­o­ry. The ini­ti­a­tion into this world is marked by the assign­ment of these bands, sym­bol­iz­ing entry into dis­tinct realms of artis­tic expres­sion.

The nar­ra­tive cen­ters around two char­ac­ters, Hen­ry and Addie, whose expe­ri­ence of The Arti­fact becomes a piv­otal explo­ration of per­cep­tion and pres­ence. Though Hen­ry appears as a sec­ondary observ­er, shin­ing in his own light, it is Addie who cap­ti­vates the col­lec­tive gaze of the artists and atten­dees, emerg­ing as a mes­mer­iz­ing enti­ty whose essence pulls the atten­tion of onlook­ers, likened to a comet that com­mands the night sky.

In this vivid set­ting, amidst an array of artis­tic endeav­ors, an artist crafts cot­ton can­dy into both rec­og­niz­able and abstract shapes, blur­ring the lines between the tan­gi­ble and the intan­gi­ble, the real and the imag­ined. These edi­ble cre­ations, rang­ing from ani­mals to con­cep­tu­al rep­re­sen­ta­tions of emo­tions and phe­nom­e­na such as sun­sets, dreams, and nos­tal­gia, serve as a metaphor for the fleet­ing, yet impact­ful, expe­ri­ences shared by Hen­ry and Addie. Their nar­ra­tive is punc­tu­at­ed by a moment of con­nec­tion, where a sim­ple kiss, sweet as the sug­ar they’ve tast­ed, encap­su­lates the essence of their encounter against the back­drop of The Arti­fac­t’s whim­si­cal won­der­land.

New York City, on a day marked by the ordi­nary turn­ing pro­found, wit­nessed a moment between Addie and Hen­ry Strauss that dis­tilled cen­turies of exis­tence into a morn­ing. Wak­ing to Hen­ry’s ten­der kiss­es, a ges­ture del­i­cate­ly fos­ter­ing con­nec­tion, Addie momen­tar­i­ly sheds the whis­pers of lone­li­ness sowed by a dark enti­ty that has long claimed domin­ion over her soul. Hen­ry, unknow­ing­ly, embod­ies a respite from her end­less cycle of for­got­ten inter­ac­tions, his pres­ence a balm against the curse that ren­ders her invis­i­ble in mem­o­ry to all she encoun­ters.

Their day begins with a sim­ple ven­ture to a local shop for break­fast, a mun­dane act that becomes a bat­tle­ground for Addie’s deep­est fears. The unex­pect­ed appear­ance of Rob­bie, Hen­ry’s friend, unrav­els the frag­ile veil of nor­mal­cy Addie clung to. Rob­bie’s fail­ure to rec­og­nize her, despite past inter­ac­tions, forces a con­fronta­tion that Addie had long dread­ed, reveal­ing the pre­car­i­ous nature of her reality—a real­i­ty where being seen and remem­bered by Hen­ry feels both a mirac­u­lous excep­tion and a vul­ner­a­bil­i­ty.

The ensu­ing con­fu­sion and ten­sion between Rob­bie and Hen­ry under­lines the pre­car­i­ous bal­ance Addie has main­tained, a bal­ance shat­tered by the mere pres­ence of anoth­er who anchors Hen­ry to a world where Addie can­not exist unde­tect­ed. This moment encap­su­lates the inher­ent tragedy of Addie’s exis­tence: the inevitabil­i­ty of her sit­u­a­tion com­ing to light, the impos­si­bil­i­ty of hid­ing in plain sight when entan­gled in the lives of oth­ers.

Com­pelled by a mix of despair and des­per­a­tion, Addie choos­es to unveil her truth to Hen­ry, step­ping into the unchart­ed ter­ri­to­ry of vul­ner­a­bil­i­ty. Her con­fes­sion, equat­ing her curse to a form of selec­tive amne­sia where she is uni­ver­sal­ly for­got­ten, chal­lenges the bound­aries of belief and under­stand­ing. In liken­ing her curse to face blind­ness, she attempts to bridge the gulf between their real­i­ties, risk­ing the frag­ile con­nec­tion they’ve built on the hope that he might grasp the mag­ni­tude of her truth.

Addie’s rev­e­la­tion, fram­ing her exis­tence as a curse of eter­nal for­get­ful­ness, lays bare the core of her tor­ment: a life untouched by time yet per­pet­u­al­ly erased from the mem­o­ries of those she meets. Her deci­sion to con­fide in Hen­ry, despite the risks, sig­ni­fies a piv­otal moment of trust and des­per­a­tion, a plea for recog­ni­tion from some­one whose mem­o­ry of her defies the curse that has defined her exis­tence. In this can­did moment, Addie con­fronts the para­dox of her desire to be remem­bered and the inevitable rev­e­la­tion of her curse, encap­su­lat­ing the poignant strug­gle for iden­ti­ty and con­nec­tion in a tran­sient world.

New York City, March 13, 2014, marks anoth­er bustling evening in Brook­lyn, where the crowd­ed bars bare­ly accom­mo­date the throngs of thirsty patrons. Addie LaRue finds her­self in one such bar, the Mer­chant, nav­i­gat­ing the sea of peo­ple with a man named Hen­ry. Despite the com­mo­tion, they retreat to a slight­ly qui­eter patio, seek­ing refuge under an awning yet still strug­gling to con­verse amidst the din.

In their snug cor­ner, Addie and Hen­ry exchange the basics—origins and occu­pa­tions over a mod­est serv­ing of fries and beers, con­strained by Hen­ry’s book­store wages. Addie men­tions her home­town, Vil­lon-sur-Sarthe in France, art­ful­ly dodg­ing the fact that she car­ries no trace of an accent, a small detail over­shad­owed by the larg­er lie about her for­got­ten wal­let. She’s hes­i­tant to manip­u­late the sit­u­a­tion fur­ther, espe­cial­ly after an ear­li­er inci­dent involv­ing a trick and The Odyssey.

There’s an under­cur­rent of fear with­in Addie, a pal­pa­ble dread of dis­rup­tion. She is ter­ri­fied at the prospect of this fleet­ing con­nec­tion dis­solv­ing, of Hen­ry dis­ap­pear­ing from her life as abrupt­ly as he entered. This fear isn’t sole­ly about los­ing Hen­ry; it’s deeply tied to the pos­si­bil­i­ty of revert­ing to her cursed soli­tude, a pun­ish­ment that eras­es her from mem­o­ry and leaves her per­pet­u­al­ly alone.

Their con­ver­sa­tion, sim­ple on the sur­face, is laced with unspo­ken anx­i­eties and desires. Addie is caught between the instinct to cling to this anom­aly of a rela­tion­ship and the fear that any sem­blance of nor­mal­cy might abrupt­ly end, thrust­ing her back into obscu­ri­ty. The chap­ter encap­su­lates a moment of pro­found vul­ner­a­bil­i­ty and the human yearn­ing for con­nec­tion, paint­ing a vivid pic­ture of two souls momen­tar­i­ly entwined against the back­drop of an unfor­giv­ing city.

New York City on a brisk March day pro­vides the dis­tinct set­ting where Addie encoun­ters a moment of spon­ta­neous joy with a dog in the park, sym­bol­iz­ing the unpre­dictable warmth of ear­ly spring. Her day unfurls with a series of inter­ac­tions and obser­va­tions that draw a vivid pic­ture of city life, from giv­ing back to a street musi­cian to the clever maneu­ver­ing with­in a movie the­ater to enjoy the tran­sient escape movies offer. Addie’s knack for blend­ing into the every­day with ease, her appre­ci­a­tion for the sim­ple plea­sures of life, includ­ing the immer­sive expe­ri­ence of cin­e­ma, and the sub­tle art of human con­nec­tion, paint her as a char­ac­ter deeply woven into the fab­ric of her envi­ron­ment yet dis­tinct­ly apart due to her unique cir­cum­stances.

The chap­ter weaves through Addie’s jour­ney across the city with an effort­less blend of ordi­nary activ­i­ties tinged with the slight mag­ic of her exis­tence. From enjoy­ing the charm of a free movie and pop­corn to the sim­ple exchange with Fred, the local book­seller, each inter­ac­tion high­lights her abil­i­ty to nav­i­gate the world with a blend of sub­tle­ty and direct­ness. The nar­ra­tive encap­su­lates a day in the life of Addie, filled with fleet­ing con­nec­tions, qui­et obser­va­tions, and the pur­suit of moments that offer solace from the iso­la­tion she often faces. Her inter­ac­tions, char­ac­ter­ized by both the depth of his­tor­i­cal con­text and the imme­di­a­cy of fleet­ing moments, reveal a lay­ered exis­tence where time seems both an end­less com­pan­ion and a fleet­ing adver­sary.

The sto­ry sub­tly tran­si­tions into the evening, where Addie’s vis­it to the Alloway bar adds lay­ers to her char­ac­ter through the social dance of con­ver­sa­tion, the choice of drink, and the antic­i­pa­tion of Toby’s per­for­mance. The music becomes a medi­um through which Addie con­nects with her past while firm­ly anchored in the present, high­light­ing her long­ing for con­nec­tion and the bit­ter­sweet nature of her inter­ac­tions. The chap­ter con­cludes with a poignant blend of music, mem­o­ry, and the acknowl­edg­ment of a shared cre­ation that exists beyond the imme­di­ate recog­ni­tion of its cre­ators. Through Addie’s expe­ri­ences, the nar­ra­tive cap­tures the essence of human con­nec­tion, cre­ativ­i­ty, and the pur­suit of moments that pro­vide a sense of belong­ing and iden­ti­ty against the back­drop of the bustling, indif­fer­ent rhythm of city life.

Chap­ter XI of “The Com­ing Race” delves into the nar­ra­tor’s fas­ci­na­tion and con­fu­sion regard­ing the hab­it­abil­i­ty of sub­ter­ranean regions, which seem­ing­ly con­tra­dict estab­lished sci­en­tif­ic beliefs about the rela­tion­ship between depth beneath the earth­’s sur­face and tem­per­a­ture. Tra­di­tion­al­ly, it is believed that the deep­er one goes towards the earth­’s core, the hot­ter it becomes, with a gen­er­al asser­tion of increas­ing heat at a rate of a degree for every foot, start­ing from fifty feet below the sur­face. How­ev­er, the nar­ra­tor dis­cov­ers that the under­ground world he explores, although clos­er to the sur­face in high­er regions, main­tains a tem­per­ate cli­mate akin to the south of France or Italy, even in its deep­er val­leys and ravines—contrary to what would be expect­ed based on gen­er­al sci­en­tif­ic con­sen­sus.

This dis­crep­an­cy between expect­ed and observed sub­ter­ranean tem­per­a­tures, espe­cial­ly in realms so deep that they should, the­o­ret­i­cal­ly, only be bear­able to crea­tures like sala­man­ders, is inex­plic­a­ble to the nar­ra­tor. The native inhab­i­tants, led by the char­ac­ter Zee, offer some insights, sug­gest­ing that the earth­’s inte­ri­or’s extreme porous­ness, vast cav­i­ties, and abil­i­ty to gen­er­ate air cur­rents and evap­o­rate heat might con­tribute to the milder cli­mates observed. Yet, even these expla­na­tions fall short of com­plete­ly demys­ti­fy­ing the phe­nom­e­non.

Zee con­cedes that there exists a depth at which the heat becomes intol­er­a­ble for life as known to the Vril-ya, their advanced sub­ter­ranean soci­ety. Still, Vril-ya philoso­phers are con­vinced that life, both sen­tient and intel­lec­tu­al, thrives even in those extreme con­di­tions. This belief is root­ed in a fun­da­men­tal prin­ci­ple that wher­ev­er cre­ation exists, it is meant to be inhab­it­ed, indi­cat­ing a the­o­log­i­cal or philo­soph­i­cal notion that the uni­verse is pur­pose­ful­ly filled with life by a benev­o­lent cre­ator. The chap­ter, thus, jux­ta­pos­es sci­en­tif­ic curios­i­ty and mys­ti­cism, encap­su­lat­ing the nar­ra­tor’s ongo­ing quest to under­stand the com­plex, and often para­dox­i­cal, nature of the world beneath the earth­’s sur­face.