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They would stand forever.
Immortal, imbued in memories, writings, hearts, minds.
The heroes of Paris.
Images captured in statues on green parks, depicted in street paintings that grew by night, detailed in country-wide articles.
They had lost their lives in battle, but never would they be forgotten. I alone survived.
Some were kind. Some were not, because of a lie. A lie told by the one who slayed Paris' protectors as a mere means to a goal. The one who some came to see as a saviour. It makes me sick. Maybe because I'm the only one, the last one who knows the truth behind all this. And I don't know what to do with it.
Where do you stand?
I’ll let you decide. I’ll let you see the trash that is thrown daily on their bronze statues and decide.
I’ll let you see those who spend hours cleaning those same statues, brushing away dirt and rubbish, until the sun shines on them once more and illuminates their masked faces, and decide.
- Alya Césaire,
Former Fox Miraculous holder