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Dinner was at seven—sharp, loud, and essential. Everyone squeezed around the table, elbows touching. The conversation jumped from schoolyard fights to factory layoffs, from Champs-Élysées on Sundays to the neighbor’s new Renault 5. No one had a screen in their pocket. Instead, they had arguments, laughter, and the shared boredom of a rainy Wednesday afternoon.

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After dessert, the phone rang—the corded one in the hallway, its spiral stretched into the kitchen. It was Grand-mère, calling to say she’d listen to Les Grosses Têtes on the radio tomorrow. "Passe-moi ton père," she’d say. And the evening settled like bread dough, slow and warm. Dinner was at seven—sharp, loud, and essential