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Chapter 11 - chapter 10

The concert hall seemed suspended in a kind of enchantment. Evelyn's fingers glided over the piano keys as though the instrument was not wood and ivory but a living extension of her soul. Each note shimmered into the air, delicate, luminous, yet strong enough to hold the silence of hundreds.

She was not simply performing; she was confessing. Every moment of loneliness, every pang of longing, every unsaid word to her parents, every letter unanswered—all of it poured into the music. The chandeliers caught the glisten of her hair, her pale face illuminated with a glow that seemed otherworldly. She looked fragile and yet untouchable, like a flame too bright to reach.

In the audience, Julian sat utterly still, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. He had heard music before, in salons, at military banquets, but never like this. This was not entertainment—it was revelation. He felt as though she had reached into him, pried open the locked chest of his heart, and was speaking directly into its hollows.

Havers leaned closer and whispered, "Captain, are you breathing?"

Julian did not answer. He couldn't. His eyes never left her. He studied every flicker of expression—the way her brows furrowed with intensity, the faint tremble in her lower lip, the fleeting smile when the melody rose. She was unlike anyone he had ever seen.

And yet, he realized with a sudden shock—he had seen her. London. That concert, before he left for training. The memory rushed back with startling clarity: chandeliers, applause, and the girl at the piano, radiant and untouchable. He had thought her memory a trick of longing, but here she was again, flesh and blood.

When Evelyn reached the crescendo, the hall seemed to tremble with it. The final notes fell like stars dropping into a dark sea, and then—silence. A silence so profound it ached. Then the applause erupted, thunderous, endless, the crowd rising to their feet.

Evelyn stood, bowed gracefully, her gown catching the light. She smiled faintly, though her eyes seemed distant, as if she were still somewhere within the music. She glanced across the sea of faces, but they blurred together under the brilliance of the chandeliers.

And in that blur, Julian remained still, his hands slow to join the applause, his gaze fixed on her as though she were the only soul in the hall.

For the briefest moment, her eyes seemed to find his. Not long enough to know him, but long enough to feel a strange spark—a pull, inexplicable and unsettling. She quickly turned away, bowing once more before exiting the stage.

Julian remained seated, his chest heavy, his thoughts tangled. Havers nudged him again. "Well? Worth the evening?"

Julian finally exhaled. His voice was low, almost hoarse. "She's… extraordinary."

Havers smirked. "You sound like a man who's lost a battle he never fought."

Julian ignored him. But deep inside, something had shifted. Something dangerous.

Backstage, the noise of the applause still thundered faintly through the velvet curtains. Evelyn sat on a narrow bench in the dressing room, her hands trembling as she unlaced her satin gloves. Her gown shimmered in the lamplight, but her face was pale, drained, the flush of performance fading quickly into exhaustion.

Josephine swept in with her usual energy, her cheeks flushed from the crowd's excitement. "Evelyn! They adore you! Do you hear them? Paris is yours tonight."

Evelyn managed a small smile, but her hands betrayed her, trembling in her lap. "They applauded the music, not me."

Josephine crouched beside her, frowning. "Don't do that. Don't belittle what you've built. It's not just the music, Evelyn—it's the way you breathe life into it. They see you."

Evelyn's gaze softened, but shadows lingered in her eyes. She whispered, "And what if they see too much?"

Josephine squeezed her hand. "Then let them. You cannot hide forever."

A knock at the door interrupted them. One of the hall's stewards entered with a tray of flowers, a card perched among them. Evelyn accepted them mechanically, her eyes skimming the familiar courtesies: 'Your performance tonight was divine, a triumph for Paris.' She set the flowers aside without much thought.

But then she noticed another card, simple and unsigned, slipped between the larger bouquets. It bore only four words:

Your music saved me.

Her heart skipped. She turned the card over, but there was nothing else—no name, no mark. Just the message. Her fingers lingered on the ink as though it carried warmth.

Josephine, peering over her shoulder, teased lightly, "A secret admirer already? That didn't take long."

Evelyn shook her head, though her chest felt strangely tight. She set the card down, unable to decide whether to feel unsettled or comforted.

---

Meanwhile, in the dim glow of a café across the square, Julian sat with his fellow officers. They laughed, drank, replayed the night's splendor in half-drunken jokes. But Julian was silent, his untouched glass before him, his mind still lost in the music.

Havers clapped him on the shoulder. "She bewitched you, Captain. Admit it. You looked as though you'd forgotten the war itself."

Julian's eyes flickered. "For a moment, I had."

The others roared with laughter, but Julian's words were not a jest. He leaned back in his chair, staring out the window toward the glowing façade of the concert hall. The image of her lingered—her bowed head, her fragile smile, the fire in her playing.

His hand drifted to his pocket where he had slipped a card earlier, one he had written hastily before leaving the hall. He thought of what he had scrawled—simple words, insufficient, but true.

Your music saved me.

And though he told himself he would never see her again, something inside him already knew that their paths were not done crossing.

The next morning dawned grey in Paris, the sky heavy with clouds that promised more snow. Evelyn awoke later than usual, her body still aching from the long hours at the piano. For a moment she lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the faint sounds of the street below. Somewhere, a cart rattled over cobblestones. Somewhere else, a street vendor called out his wares. Life continued, indifferent to her triumph the night before.

Josephine entered quietly, carrying a breakfast tray. "You slept through half the morning. Paris is buzzing about you, Evelyn—every paper, every café, every salon." She set the tray down with a flourish, lifting one of the broadsheets to read aloud. "'The Angel of the Piano: Evelyn Hart leaves Paris spellbound.'"

Evelyn buried her face in the pillow. "They exaggerate. They always exaggerate."

Josephine laughed, tugging the covers away. "Let them. For once, let yourself be celebrated."

Evelyn sat up reluctantly, her eyes drifting toward the flowers on her writing desk. They filled the room with perfume—roses, lilies, orchids, gifts from patrons and admirers. But her gaze settled on the plain card resting among them, the one with no signature. Your music saved me.

Her hand itched to pick it up again, but she resisted under Josephine's watchful eyes. Instead, she reached for the tea, hiding her distraction.

---

Elsewhere, Julian rose early despite the late night. Military discipline was not so easily broken. His men stirred slowly, grumbling about Paris's damp chill. Julian stood at the window of their modest lodgings, watching the streets below as the city shook off its slumber. He felt out of place here, a soldier among civilians, a shadow in a city of light.

Yet his thoughts were not of patrols or orders. They returned, again and again, to the girl at the piano. Evelyn Hart. He had heard her name whispered in the crowd, spoken with reverence. He repeated it under his breath, as though testing the sound of it.

One of his fellow officers entered, fastening his coat. "We've a briefing this afternoon. Word is we'll be called back sooner than expected. The Ardennes won't wait for Parisian pleasures."

Julian nodded, though unease tugged at him. Already, the war pulled at his sleeve, threatening to reclaim him before he could even make sense of what he had felt last night. Before he could decide whether to seek her out.

His hand brushed against his pocket. Empty now, for the card he had left behind. A part of him wondered if she had read it. Another part—more dangerous—hoped she had.

---

By late afternoon, Evelyn ventured out for a walk along the Seine. She wrapped herself in a thick cloak, a simple bonnet hiding most of her golden hair. The air was sharp with cold, the river swollen and grey, but the walk cleared her mind.

As she crossed Pont Neuf, she caught sight of a small group of British soldiers passing on the opposite side, their uniforms dark against the snow. She glanced at them only briefly, lowering her eyes as she passed.

Julian was among them. He, too, glanced toward the bundled figure of a young woman, something about her gait, her posture tugging at his memory. For a fleeting instant, his heart quickened—but by the time he turned his head fully, she had already vanished into the crowd.

Neither knew how close they had come.

Evelyn ducked into a small bookshop on Rue de Rivoli, eager to escape the chill of the evening air. The shop was dimly lit, the scent of old paper and ink wrapping around her like a familiar blanket. She traced her gloved fingers along the spines of well-worn volumes—Chopin's letters, Goethe's poems, a French translation of Shakespeare. Books had always comforted her when people could not.

The shopkeeper, a kindly man with spectacles, greeted her softly. "Mademoiselle Hart, your performance was spoken of even here." His voice held admiration, but not the feverish awe of the public. She liked that.

Evelyn smiled faintly. "You flatter me, monsieur. I am here not as a pianist, but simply as a reader."

She wandered deeper into the narrow aisles, pulling down a book of poetry. Yet as she turned its pages, her mind drifted again to the unsigned card resting on her desk. Your music saved me. Who could have written it? A patron, a critic, a stranger? Or—someone who had truly needed saving?

The bell above the shop door chimed, letting in a gust of cold air. Evelyn didn't look up at first. She was absorbed in the poem before her.

But Julian did. He had entered with two of his men, seeking only shelter and distraction. He shook the snow from his coat, his boots echoing softly on the wooden floor. Then, as his eyes adjusted to the lamplight, he saw her—standing between shelves, her face serene, haloed by the glow of a single lamp.

His breath caught. For a moment, he thought he might be imagining her, that his mind had conjured her from longing. But no—she was real.

Evelyn sensed the weight of a gaze and looked up. Their eyes met across the quiet shop. For an instant, the world seemed to still—the voices of his men muffled, the ticking clock forgotten, even the snow outside suspended.

Julian inclined his head slightly, a gesture of recognition, though he did not yet step closer. Evelyn, startled by the sudden connection, lowered her gaze quickly to the book in her hands, her pulse racing. She had grown used to stares, to the admiration of strangers, but his was different—steady, searching, as though he were not looking at a pianist, but at her.

She closed the book, sliding it back into its place, and moved toward the counter. The shopkeeper wrapped her chosen volume in brown paper, but Evelyn's hands trembled slightly as she accepted it. She could feel Julian still watching her, though he had not spoken a word.

When she turned to leave, she risked one last glance. He was there, tall and silent among the rows of books, his dark uniform setting him apart from the quiet world of paper and ink. Their eyes met again, and this time, neither looked away too quickly.

Evelyn stepped out into the snowy street, her heart unsteady. Behind her, Julian remained in the shop, rooted where he stood, fighting the sudden urge to follow her.

It was the second time fate had placed them in the same room. And though words had not yet been exchanged, both felt the strange certainty that it would not be the last.

To be continued..

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