Rain tapped against the narrow cell window, a rhythmic reminder of time slipping away. Marcel Chevalier sat on the hard cot, his fingers tracing the edges of a worn photograph. It showed a young woman with a bright smile, her hand resting protectively on a boy’s shoulder. His son. A family now reduced to a memory.

The execution was set for dawn. The guillotine, an ancient relic in a modern age, waited in the courtyard. Marcel had heard the guards whisper earlier, their voices laced with unease. “The last one,” they said. “France doesn’t do this anymore.”

He thought about that. Being the last. A final punctuation mark in the story of a justice system that had severed countless lives. Would his death mean anything?

A knock broke his reverie. The chaplain entered, his face somber but kind. “Marcel,” he began gently, “have you considered what we spoke of yesterday? Seeking peace, perhaps forgiveness?”

Marcel chuckled dryly, a bitter sound. “Forgiveness? From whom? The courts? The crowds who’ll cheer when the blade falls? Or the family of the man I killed?”

The chaplain hesitated, then sat beside him. “Forgiveness isn’t for them. It’s for you. To carry with you, wherever you go next.”

Marcel stared at the photograph again. He hadn’t meant to kill the man—an argument in a bar, a shove, a bottle breaking the wrong way. But intent hadn’t mattered in court. A life for a life, they’d decided.

He thought about the man’s widow, his children. Did they hate him? Did they want this? Or were they simply trapped, like him, in a machine they couldn’t stop?

As the chaplain left, Marcel stood and walked to the window. The rain had stopped, and the first light of dawn crept over the prison walls. He pressed his forehead to the cool glass, whispering a prayer he wasn’t sure he believed.

When the guards came for him, he walked with steady steps. The courtyard was silent except for the soft rustle of leaves in the wind. The guillotine loomed, its sharp edge glinting faintly.

Marcel knelt, his heartbeat strangely calm. As they bound his hands and positioned him, he closed his eyes.

“I forgive you,” he whispered, though he wasn’t sure to whom. The executioner? The judge? Himself?

The blade fell. And with it, centuries of bloodshed in the name of justice came to an end.