That night, long after the applause had faded and the venue lights dimmed, Julian sat alone at his piano in the soft glow of a single lamp.
His fingers rested still on the keys. He didn’t play a note. He simply sat there in silence, remembering—a memory long buried, awakened only by the sight of a woman who shouldn’t have existed outside legend.
It had been more than thirty years ago, back when his name illuminated marquees and his songs filled every radio station. He was young then, a true singer-songwriter—shaping melodies from jazz and classical influences, living and breathing nothing but music.
In the midst of recording one of his most ambitious albums, he decided to arrange a track with a full orchestra. While reviewing the list of musicians, one particular name caught his attention.
De Valois.
It appeared more than once—violin, oboe, flute. When he asked about the coincidence, the conductor smiled knowingly. “Distant relatives,” he explained. “That family overflows with gifted musicians.”
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Julian’s curiosity was piqued. During breaks, he spoke with the musicians, who told him their family came from a quiet village tucked deep in the French countryside—a place of glass-still lakes, fine wine, and timeless tranquility.
When the recording ended, Julian decided to visit that mysterious village for himself.
The deeper he drove into the countryside, the narrower the roads became, until it felt as though he had slipped through a doorway into another era. The air grew clearer, the light softer. No billboards, no noise—only the hush of wind in the trees.
He rented a small villa and wandered the cobbled streets with no destination in mind. There were no landmarks, no tourist crowds—only peace.
One evening, he stepped into a tiny bar tucked beside the lake. The bartender greeted him warmly and poured him a glass of the house wine.
“It’s remarkably quiet here,” Julian said, savoring the stillness.
“For now,” the bartender replied with a smile. “In summer the lake fills with visitors. But this place is mostly for people who don’t wish to be found.”
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Julian took a sip—and froze mid-breath.
He had tasted countless wines in his life, stored some of the world’s rarest bottles in his own cellar, yet none compared to this one. It wasn’t just flavor—it was feeling. It filled his chest the way a perfect song fills silence.
“What is this?” he whispered.
The bartender smiled mysteriously. “You’re very fortunate. Few ever taste that particular vintage.”
Julian mentioned the castle he had passed earlier on the hill.
“Ah, the De Valois estate,” the bartender said with quiet reverence. “They’ve lived there for generations.”
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At that, a distinguished man at the far end of the bar turned toward them.
“They’re not just a noble family,” he said, voice low and certain. “They’re something much older. Around here, people say the De Valois are descended from the divine. Their daughter is called the Queen—the Muse.”
The bartender nodded. “There’s a piano in that castle. It only truly sings when the Queen plays it.”
Julian raised a curious brow. “Only one person can play it properly?”
The man nodded gravely. “When the Muse is born into this world, she inherits the name Séraphine. That’s how we recognize her.”
It sounded like myth, yet they didn’t speak like people sharing folklore. They spoke like people mourning something real—someone beloved who had vanished from the world too soon.
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“The Queen always leaves this world young,” the bartender murmured. “Her music… it’s too pure for the earth to hold.”
“If you’re truly a musician,” the man added, “you’ll know her when you meet her. You’ll feel it instantly. You’ll crave it. But she’s never seeking fame—only someone who can walk beside her.”
Julian said nothing more. He finished his wine, thanked them, and stepped out into the quiet night. The taste lingered on his tongue like the echo of a perfect chord.
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Now, sitting in his dimly lit apartment decades later, Julian whispered into the stillness,
“I met her tonight.”
He leaned forward, his hands still resting on the keys.
After a lifetime spent chasing music—through success and heartbreak, adoration and solitude—he had finally encountered her. The Muse. The Queen.
“Please,” he murmured, his voice trembling, “let her find happiness.”
No song rose from his lips.
It was a prayer—offered not to the heavens, but to the music itself.
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