Shadows on the Shore

In the sultry embrace of a summer in a small French coastal town, Julien walks alone. His steps are measured, his demeanor as impassive as the flat sea stretching under the relentless sun. Inspired by Albert Camus’ "The Stranger," Julien’s existence is marked by an existential detachment, an innate aloofness that colors his interactions with the world.

Julien had recently buried his mother, a woman he had lived with all his life, in a quiet, unremarkable ceremony. There was no display of grief, no tears shed at the graveside—only the monotonous drone of the priest and the distant crash of waves against the shore. His mother had been his sole companion, and yet, in her absence, his life proceeded unchanged, marked by the same routine: work, walk, sleep, repeat.

One afternoon, while wandering the town’s ancient, winding streets, Julien stops at a familiar café. The air inside is thick with the aroma of brewed coffee and baked goods. Here, he meets Lila, a friend from his youth, whose presence stirs a rare flicker of recognition in his eyes.

Lila, vibrant and emotive, embodies everything Julien is not. She reaches across the table, her hand brushing his. “Julien, it’s been so long. How are you holding up? I heard about your mother,” she says, her voice laden with a concern he finds both suffocating and alien.

“I am as I always am,” Julien responds, his voice flat, his face a mask of indifference. Lila frowns, puzzled and slightly hurt by his coldness. “Don’t you feel anything? Sadness? Loss?” she presses, searching his placid face for a sign of the human sorrow she expects.

Julien considers her questions. “I miss her presence,” he admits after a pause. “But feelings... they are different for me.” His eyes drift past Lila, through the café’s window, to the people bustling by.

Their conversation languishes, with Lila attempting to delve deeper into Julien’s psyche and Julien retreating further into his shell of detachment. Frustrated and unable to breach his emotional fortifications, Lila leaves, her goodbye echoing with a mixture of sadness and resignation.

Later that evening, as twilight casts its soothing shadows, Julien’s solitary dinner at a local tavern is interrupted by a boisterous group. Among them is a man, drunk and belligerent, who recognizes Julien from the café. “Hey, it’s the man who doesn’t feel!” he jeers, laughter spilling from his lips.

The mockery does not perturb Julien, but when the man pushes him, something within Julien snaps. With a swift, almost reflexive motion, he strikes the man, sending him crashing to the ground. The tavern falls silent, eyes fixed on Julien, who stands over the fallen man, his expression as unreadable as ever.

This act of violence spirals into a trial, where Julien finds himself entangled not just in legal proceedings, but in a moral inquisition. His impassivity, so profound and so pervasive, becomes the focal point of the prosecution. “This man feels nothing,” the prosecutor declares, pointing at Julien’s unflinching demeanor as proof of his moral bankruptcy.

Julien is sentenced, more for his failure to adhere to societal norms of emotion than for the violence itself. As he sits in his cell, he looks out of the small window at the moonlight dancing on the sea. There’s a peace in accepting his fate, a peace that comes not from resignation, but from an acceptance of his nature. Untroubled by the past or future, Julien exists, simply and completely, in the now.