"You have in you intuitions of immortality, trust them; they are right. Follow them; they will lead you to your Father's house." -Reuen Thomas Mattiew Tousseau rose with the rising sun, and not insignificant aid from his bedside alarm clock. His body was almost immediately on autopilot as he padded through the apartment. First stop was the bathroom, where Tousseau stood brushing his teeth. He stared sleepily at himself as he did, looking at his body in the mirror. Faint impressions of muscularity, now regressed to the nondescript firmness of masculinity. Cheeks fuzzed with curly wisps that would grow into the beginnings of a beard in a few days. Eyes still heavy with sleep. Sleep, and perhaps some faint wistfulness with regard to his immortality, it seemed. He spit into the sink and continued with his morning, showering and dressing. Attire was simple enough: dark blue jeans, simple brown chukka boots, a heather gray long-sleeve sweater and a lighter grey pea coat. Though his spaces were warm, Tousseau knew very well how the European cold would cut to the bone if one was not dressed properly. Stepping out into the lobby, he was greeted by old man Pep. A warm smile lit the old man's face, and the two spent a few minutes talking about the game this evening. "Don't suppose you'll be watching tonight?" He asked. His old voice was gravelly, rough in its enunciation and heavily shaded with the 'e's and 'ou's of his native French. Tousseau shook his head no; his Tigers de Toulouse weren't playing until tomorrow. Patting the old man's shoulder, he stepped out onto the street and pulled his coat closed. Still early in the morning, he didn't suspect even noon would lift the November air above 40. Cold air plumed from his lips as he exhaled deeply and started down the street towards Martin's bakery. In a few minutes' time, he was settled at his favorite corner seat and nursing his first coffee, watching the men in their wool suits and overcoats and women in their skirts and stockings parade by. There was even another observer, it seemed, perched across the street at the large (though not the largest) fountain. Interesting, he mused. Tourist season was certainly over (who traveled to a town about to be seized by winter time?), and yet she seemed to sit perched as if waiting for something. She was no local, to be sure; her red hair was much too natural. Tousseau examined her curiously for a few moments longer before sipping his coffee again.