You can love someone deeply… and still ruin everything.
---
Mr. Black is alone in his room at La Marquise.
There are no mirrors—only candlelight and a grand piano in the corner.
He opens a locked drawer in his desk. Inside: a faded red ribbon. A photograph, half-burned. A sheet of unfinished music with two names scribbled in the margin: Lyselle & R.
He sets the ribbon on the piano.
He closes his eyes.
And the scene melts.
---
A younger Mr. Black (more relaxed, still awkward, still quiet) sits on a rooftop balcony with Lyselle beside him. The city below sparkles. She's barefoot, her heels discarded, sipping lukewarm wine.
"I didn't think you even liked me," she says, teasing."I didn't," he says flatly. Then, after a beat:"I loved you. That was the problem."
She laughs, but it's soft. Real.
He starts playing a quiet tune on a portable keyboard beside him.She leans her head on his shoulder.
"What's it called?""Untitled.""That's a terrible name.""It wasn't finished yet."
Neither of them say what they're really thinking:This is the happiest they've ever been.
---
Later, in a music studio. He's withdrawn. She's pacing.
"You don't tell me anything anymore.""Because every time I do, it becomes something you're afraid of."
"You think I'm afraid of you?""No. I think you're afraid of how much I need you."
Silence.
"We're not like them," she says. "We don't have the same masks. You want to control every room you walk into—""And you want to disappear in every one."
"Maybe I do."
He stares at her like he doesn't recognize her anymore.
"So go."
---
A letter, folded. Unsent.
A piano piece, unfinished.
He waits at the train station for her. It rains. She never arrives.
"She said she'd come. She promised."
Rouge finds him soaked through, holding the red ribbon.
"She's gone.""You don't know that.""She chose it, R. She walked away."
"No. She ran because she thought I wouldn't follow."
---
Back in the room, Mr. Black opens his eyes.
The ribbon is still there.
The keys of the piano are untouched.
He begins to play the same melody as before. Still unfinished.
"I wasn't supposed to be the villain in her story," he murmurs."But I never stopped being the hero in mine."
---
Backstage, just after dawn. Pale morning light spills through the high windows, washing the dressing room in soft gold and muted blue. Dust floats like flecks of light in the hush. The velvet curtain remains drawn, the stage asleep.
---
The rest of the troupe is scattered.
Veritas is speaking with someone on the phone, voice clipped and clinical.Rouge is polishing cufflinks at the mirror.Lune is missing — still out, or avoiding.
Mr. Black stands near the window, watching the street.
His hands are behind his back. His voice is low.
"It's time.""Time for what?" Chéri asks, smiling halfheartedly."For her to know I'm here. For her to remember."
He turns, eyes gleaming in the dark.
"I want you to deliver it."
Chéri blinks. "Me?"
Mr. Black crosses the room, places the sealed envelope into Chéri's gloved hand.Pressed rose. Elegant seal. Faint scent of worn perfume.
"You're the softest. The safest. She won't fear you. She might even listen."
"But…" Chéri looks down at the envelope. "She left, didn't she? Voluntarily?"
"That's irrelevant," Veritas mutters from the corner.
"Is it?" Chéri asks, quietly. "I mean—what if she really doesn't want to be found?"
Mr. Black's stare turns sharp.
"If she didn't want to be found, she wouldn't be here."
For the first time in a long while, Chéri doesn't smile.
He turns the envelope over in his hands.It's delicate. Lovingly folded. But it feels heavy.
"She was kind to me once," he murmurs. "Back when she used to visit during rehearsals. She said I had warm eyes."
Silence.
"I just… I don't want to break them."
"Break what?" Mr. Black asks, voice flat.
"Her eyes."
That's when it happens:
Veritas scoffs.Rouge looks up — but doesn't speak.
Mr. Black steps forward.
He places a hand on Chéri's shoulder. Not firm. Not soft. Just final.
"You don't have to understand. You just have to be trusted."
"Right," Chéri whispers.
He hesitates.
Then — he nods.Tucks the letter into his coat. Forces a grin.
"Guess I better fix my hair."
---
He walks out into the street like a man on a mission. But in his chest, something flutters and twists. Not guilt. Not yet.
Just the first quiet beat of doubt.
---
It was an early forenoon. The Violet District, where ivy climbs the cracked facades and soft jazz spills from second-story windows. It smells of citrus soap and old books.
---
Chéri strolls through the garden plaza, carrying a violin case he doesn't know how to open, and a folded note sealed with a pressed rose. Rouge helped him memorize a line. Veritas didn't even tell him the full plan.
"Just find her," they said."Be charming," they said."Get her to follow you."
Chéri believes this is about rekindling a lost flame.He's just the romantic messenger.
---
He finds her outside a luthier's shop again, speaking softly with the owner. She's dressed simply, head turned toward the sun. She looks peaceful.
Chéri freezes.Not because he recognizes her—but because she feels like something out of a love song. He almost forgets his line.
She sees him approach. No fear. But her shoulders straighten.
"Bonjour, mademoiselle," Chéri says, bowing just a little. "Forgive the intrusion—I believe I've been sent to return something dear to you."
"Oh?" she asks, mildly amused."A name. A note. And… maybe a mistake."
She raises an eyebrow.
He offers her the folded note. She accepts it, but doesn't open it.
"What's your name?" she asks."Chéri.""Your real name.""That is my real name. Or at least, the one I like best."
She smiles, but her eyes remain still.
"And the man who sent you?""He's waiting. At La Marquise."
She turns away slightly.
"Of course he is."
"You… you don't have to come right away," Chéri says quickly. "He just… he never stopped thinking about you. That's all."
She finally opens the note.
Her eyes scan it. Her breath catches—but not for the reason Chéri thinks.There's a symbol at the bottom. A mark she recognizes.
"Do you know what this says?" she asks him gently.
"Not really. Just something poetic. About stars. And regrets. Maybe some music stuff."
She folds it once. Neat. Clean.
"He's not trying to find me, Chéri. He's trying to own me again."
Chéri steps back a little. "No—he's not like that. He just… he's sad. He thinks you're still…"
She cuts him off, but not cruelly.
"He's built a story around me. One where I never made a choice. One where I was stolen from him."
"You weren't?""I left."
That silences Chéri.
She walks past him, placing the note in his jacket pocket.
"Tell him I'm not coming.And tell yourself the truth before someone uses your heart for something it doesn't deserve."
She disappears into the crowd.
---
Hours later, back at La Marquise.
Rouge greets him at the door.
"Did she cry?""No.""Did she run?""No."
"Then?""…She told me to tell the truth."
Rouge pauses.
"And will you?""I don't know what the truth is."
---
Behind them, Mr. Black stands at the window of the dressing room, staring out into nothing. He never asked what she said.
He only asked:
"Did she take the rose?"'
---
The next evening. A table has been prepared in the corner of a jazz café — candlelit, white tablecloth, two glasses untouched. Rouge pulled strings to book the space, Veritas ensured they'd be seen, and Chéri had slipped the letter earlier that day with a soft, confused smile.
They wait until nightfall.
She never comes.
No one says it aloud, but even Mr. Black's posture starts to harden with each passing minute.The music fades. The candles burn low.
---
As they leave the café — bitter, quiet, disappointed — the hostess rushes out behind them.
"Excuse me! Sir?""Yes?" Rouge turns, already slipping into performance mode.
She holds out a small folded napkin. Linen. White.
"Someone left this on the table. After you stepped away."
Rouge takes it carefully. Reads it.
His face doesn't change. But he stops walking.
"It's from her," he says, handing it to Mr. Black.
The Message Reads:
"Your invitation was lovely.But you're still playing the wrong song.—L."
There's a smear of violet ink across the bottom — the kind used in calligraphy. And drawn beside the signature… a single, inked eighth note with a slash through it.
A silent note.
Chéri:
"Wait… that's her handwriting."His voice is quiet. He looks a little sick."She used to leave me jokes on napkins like this… back when she—when she was part of the group."
Veritas:
"She's mocking us.""She's warning us," Rouge corrects, voice cold.
They look at Mr. Black.
His jaw is locked. His eyes never blink. His fingers curl the napkin slightly.
"She still remembers the music," he murmurs."She still cares."
Veritas steps in.
"She doesn't care. She's playing."
Mr. Black folds the napkin neatly and places it in his pocket.
"Then let's give her a performance she can't ignore."
He turns toward the theater.
"It's time to raise the curtain."
---
Somewhere in the city, Lyselle watches from a window, the candlelight flickering across her face.Her hand hovers over the piano keys.She doesn't play.
Not yet.