Cédric de Mylo
A Single Day, a Chosen Moment
Excerpts from the novel
The illustrations on this site were created using AI and do not appear in the book.
Tom’s House
​
Before going downstairs, Tom threw open the window of his bedroom. The scent of pine, dry earth, and a sweet hint from the garden reached him at once. The park stretched out before him, beautiful and scattered with shadows. He had grown up here, among childhood games and secret hiding places. The estate had been passed down from his grandparents. Distant memories of a gentle voice, a deep laugh... The park, at least, had remained — a protective haven, changing with the seasons.
Paul, ready for his first day of middle school
​
Tom climbed the stairs slowly. He knew his little brother well. Mornings? He hated them. The light, the noise, itchy socks, everything. He gently opened the bedroom door. The room was still wrapped in shadow. Paul lay asleep, curled up under the covers.
Tom stepped closer and whispered with exaggerated seriousness:
"Agent Paul, wake up. Mission: Grade Six has begun. Objective: survive middle school. Equipment: backpack, pencil case, self-confidence. Main enemy: the math teacher."
A groan.
"Paul?... It’s 9:30. You missed the first day. Mom already ran off to school with your backpack in a panic. You’ll have to repeat the year."
"Mmmmh... shut up."
His big brother smiled, sat down on the edge of the bed, and gently ran a hand through his hair.
In the kitchen, breakfast’s ready. Thanks, Eva
​
In the kitchen, the morning light cast pale reflections across the cupboards. The smell of coffee and toast welcomed the household. Eva was already moving around, a dish towel slung over her shoulder.
She looked up and smiled.
"Hey, you. Sleep well?"
"Yeah. And you?"
"Mmh... like a mother hen the night before school starts."
She poured him a coffee, leaned against the counter, and watched him for a few seconds.
"Are you okay? Really okay?"
Tom looked up from his slice of toast.
"Yeah. Why?"
"I don’t know... Senior year, big decisions, pressure from the teachers, college applications... You hide your worries well, if you have any."
"Honestly, I’m fine. I’m ready. But it does feel weird to think it’s the last one."
Tom and Simon’s High School
​
Jules Verne High School stood in a quiet neighborhood, just a few steps from the town center. It was an imposing building made of pale stone, with large paned windows, high-ceilinged hallways, and a wide central staircase that creaked under hurried footsteps. For over a century, generations of students had passed through, leaving their marks: names carved into desks, rumors echoing down the halls, whispered promises between classes.
From the outside, it looked like a museum. But inside, it was a real high school: noisy, messy, full of laughter, dented lockers, torn posters, and shrill bells. Room 204 smelled of chalk, old wood, and cold coffee.
Simon, Tom’s Best Friend
​
The gravel crunched. Simon looked up, leaning against the trunk of the old pine tree. When Tom reached him, they exchanged nothing more than a glance, a hint of a smile. No words were needed.
His jeans were a bit too long, a black T-shirt with a semi-ironic message, his bag slung over one shoulder. Simon gave off a kind of studied nonchalance. His dark brown hair looked like it had fought a battle with his pillow, and his sharp eyes scanned the world with the nervous watchfulness that clung to him like a second skin. He didn’t need to speak to be noticed. His presence filled the space.
Madame Lemoine. The Math Teacher.
​
Over thirty years of teaching behind her, a bun as tight as a theorem, and a wardrobe made entirely of mauve cardigans. She entered the room without a sound, but carried weight. The kind that makes you think a pop quiz could strike at any moment.
She wrote with chalk, slowly, as if each formula were a sacred glyph.
Any student she called on seemed to drop two degrees in body temperature.
Dinner at Tom’s
​
In this excerpt, Paul tells Tom and their mother about an unlikely scene that happened in class — a moment that’s both funny, absurd, and full of quiet proof of their family bond.
​
“Tom! Come see! You’re gonna die laughing!”
Paul, his little brother, popped out from the hallway, hair a mess, game controller in hand. Tom threw his arms in the air like a tragic hero flunking his final exam in epic drama.
“I’m coming, clown.”
He dropped his bag by his door and followed him in.
When he came back down, the table was set. The smell of gratin filled the whole house. Paul started talking before Eva even put the cutlery down.
“You won’t believe what happened in math today. A pigeon straight-up crashed the room, right in the middle of the test!”
Tom grinned, despite himself.
“No way. And then?”
“Bastien totally lost his shit and tried to chase it off with his notebook… and bam, face-planted like a slug. Meanwhile, the pigeon, cool as ever, dropped a turd right on Amandine’s test paper.”
Eva raised her eyebrows.
“You meant ‘he kind of lost it’, of course? Let’s keep the swearing off the dinner table.”
“Obviously,” Paul said, rolling his eyes.
Tom jumped in.
“What did Madame Laville do?”
Paul lit up, diving back in.
“She ran out screaming to get a broom to shoo the bird out, but came back with this giant shovel. Just as Amandine was starting to bawl over her poop-splattered exam.”
“Paul…”
He straightened up, adopting a grand theatrical tone:
“I meant to say: as the unfortunate Amandine wept inconsolably over her now-compromised academic document.”
All three of them burst into laughter. Tom felt grounded. At ease. Simply there. Paul, proud of his effect, stabbed his fork into the gratin, then grew thoughtful.
Seb and Dylan
​
They weren’t there to play.
Seb and Dylan were there to test the limits — and break anyone who didn’t fit into their boxes.
A whistle blew. Time to gather up.
"Two teams! Shorts on one side, tracksuits on the other."
Tom, Simon, and Ulysse ended up on the same team. So did Seb and Dylan. Tom sensed the tension. He pulled on his bib, the gesture a bit stiff.
"Seriously? We’re with them? Great vibe..." Simon muttered.
The game started, messy and tense. Tom ran, mind muddled. He spotted Ulysse, moving fluidly through the chaos. The ball rolled. Ulysse dashed forward. Dylan too. He shoved him hard.
Ulysse staggered but stayed upright, silent. He took the ball back.
A flicker of admiration ran through Tom, who hadn’t missed a thing.
Seb and Dylan exchanged a quick glance. They were closing in on Ulysse. Tom saw it clearly. This wasn’t a match anymore. It was a provocation.
Seb wasn’t even pretending to play as a team. Every missed pass turned into an insult, a middle finger, a muttered slur.
Dylan kept brushing up against Ulysse — too often, too hard.
Tom hesitated a second, then charged. He cut off Dylan’s path, intercepted a sloppy pass, and sent the ball to Ulysse, who caught it without effort. Then everything fell into place.
They played together, instinctively.
As if they had always been on the same team.
Clean passes. Perfect runs.
Tom anticipated Ulysse’s moves.
Ulysse read his in return.
Not just a last-minute duo.
Something obvious.
Room 204
​
Room 204. The legendary one. Already described, often imitated, never matched. It always smelled of chalk, old wood, and cold coffee. But that wasn’t the whole story.
There were also the creaky windows, and those wobbly wooden desks with a distinctly experimental look — like someone’s failed attempt at carpentry school.
Tom sat down between Ulysse and Ludo, as if nothing were out of the ordinary.