ÉloïseThe rehearsal is a blur. My fingers move over the violin strings, mechanical, obedient. The music comes out, technically correct, but empty. It has no soul. It doesn't fly. It stays wisely on the ground, where everything is predictable, mapped out.My mind, however, is elsewhere. It's in a café, wrapped in the smell of rain and wet lilac. It's under that downpour, spinning, spinning, until losing the world's balance. It's on the skin of my knees, where the fabric of his trousers brushed mine, leaving a mark of fire more real than any note on a score.The card in my jeans pocket burns. Léo Moreau. Architect. And on the back, scribbled, that secret address. An invitation to jump. A door ajar onto his void.I find myself at home, in my studio covered in scores and concert posters. The silence is heavy, different from the café's. It's empty, that one. It's not charged with his presence. I run a bath, take off my still-damp clothes. In the steam, I see his face again. The precision o
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