The radio lines were dead, and the streets were silent in the hours following Moreau's speech.
No newspapers printed extra editions.
The country seemed to hold its breath, holding something fragile between resignation and hope.
By late morning, however, the hush unraveled as whispers turned to murmurs and murmurs roared into calls of unity.
The speech lived inside every heart it touched.
In a café near Rue de Rivoli, hushed conversations ceased as the owner switched off the radio.
Monsieur Dorbe, in his mid-sixties and accustomed to national pessimism, leaned forward.
His voice trembled not with fear, but something else.
"She… she spoke for me. For my grandchildren. For this city."
His wife, Agnès, smiled as she gently placed her hand on his.
The barista wiped a tear from her cheek.
"I thought I'd never hear France's heart again. And then… there it was."
They weren't alone.
Across the café, regulars once silent now shared nods.
Quiet solidarity.
