From Lune's eyes, Mr. Black isn't obsessed—he's grieving.
---
It was nearly dawn.
The last of the city's lanterns had dimmed. A soft gray mist drifted in from the canals, curling around the feet of the lampposts like smoke from a dream.
Inside La Marquise, the velvet curtains were drawn, the seats empty. The silence was deep—but not cold. It felt like something waiting to wake up.
Lune pushed the door to the stage open softly.
He hadn't meant to wake up so early. But the sound of the piano—soft, almost shy—had pulled him from sleep like a thread tugging at his chest.
And there, seated in the half-light, was Mr. Black.
---
He was playing—barely.
Not a song. Not yet. Just notes. Here and there. A pattern unfinished.
Lune stepped quietly into the edge of the stage.
"You play beautifully," he said, voice hushed, like the wrong tone might break it.
Mr. Black didn't turn.
"Not anymore. My hands remember the rhythm. But the reason is gone."
Lune hesitated, then sat cross-legged a few steps away.
"Is it her? The girl you're looking for?"
A pause. Then—
"I'm not looking. I'm remembering.""That sounds sad.""It is."
Lune tilted his head. "Was she… kind to you?"
Mr. Black's hands hovered over the keys.
"She saw through me. Not like a mirror. Like glass. The kind that shows you something you didn't realize was missing."
"So why did she leave?""Because I let her.""Then why find her now?""Because I'm not ready to forget."
Lune looked down at the floorboards. The dust there made the stage feel older than it should've.
"Is this really about her? Or is it about you?"
Mr. Black finally looked at him. His eyes were tired—like they'd been holding something in for years.
"Does it matter?"
For a moment, neither spoke.
The piano whispered again under Mr. Black's fingers. A few simple notes—slow, incomplete, like a memory on the edge of vanishing.
Lune picked up a tuning fork nearby, struck it gently against the floor, and set it humming.
"Maybe… you just want someone to listen."
Mr. Black said nothing.
But the music changed—just slightly. Warmer.
---
Somewhere in the back of his mind, a chord shifted—and it wasn't in the sheet music.
And in that quiet, before the morning claimed the city again, Lune saw not a villain. Not a monster. Not a manipulator.
Just a man who was lost in the sound of something he could no longer hold.
---
Later that morning. The sun is just breaking through the mist, casting golden light across the theater's back hallway. The air smells like dust and old perfume.
Lune walks quietly, still thinking about what Mr. Black said. The soft piano notes still echo in his chest. He's holding a cup of tea in both hands. Still sleepy. Still unsure.
Then he hears low voices—Veritas and Rouge.
They're speaking in the stairwell landing just behind the dressing rooms.
"The contact was right," Veritas is saying, calm and cold. "She's under a false name. The district matches.""You sure she won't run?" Rouge asks."That's the point of bait. Let her feel safe long enough to stop hiding."
Lune steps around the corner.
"Wait—what bait?"
Both men look up.
Veritas doesn't smile.
"Lune. You're up early."
"I… I heard the piano. Mr. Black was playing."
"Yes. He does that when he remembers what he's lost."
Lune hesitates, eyes flicking between them.
"What did you mean by bait?"
"It's just an expression," Rouge says lightly. "We're artists, darling. Everything's metaphor."
Lune frowns. "But you said she changed her name. How do you know that if no one's spoken to her?"
Veritas' expression hardens. No irritation. Just stillness.
He steps forward, voice velvet-soft and razor-thin.
"Lune."
"Y-Yeah?"
"You're here to play piano. Smile for the papers. Look soft enough that no one asks why five men showed up in a crumbling city with no history and too much talent.""You are not here to interpret conversations you're not a part of."
Lune shrinks a little under his stare.
"I was just—""Curious?""...yeah."
"Then be curious about chord changes. Stage timing. And what color roses look best on you."
He turns away, adjusting his gloves.
"Leave the rest to the grown-ups."
---
He watches them walk off. The warmth from earlier—gone, replaced with that crawling feeling in his gut. Like he just watched something slither under a locked door.
He sips the tea. It's gone cold.
"It's just a reunion," he whispers."Just a show."
But it doesn't feel like it anymore.
---
Late afternoon in Amorélline's Violet District. A sleepy, half-forgotten part of the city known for old bookstores, instrument shops, and laundry lines strung between buildings like faded ribbons.
Lune had wandered away from the theater. Just for a little air. No one had noticed.He had his satchel, a sketchbook inside. A pencil between his teeth. He wasn't spying. Wasn't sneaking. Just… curious.
And lost.
---
He turns a corner and nearly collides with someone carrying a box of sheet music.
"Oh—!"
Papers go flying. The box tips.
Lune stumbles back.
"Oh no, I'm so sorry, I wasn't—!"
He crouches to help gather the papers, hands trembling.Then a soft voice:
"Careful. Some of those are originals."
He looks up.
And there she is.
---
She's dressed simply—navy coat, dark gloves, no makeup. Her hair is tied loosely. She doesn't glow, doesn't float. She's real.
Her eyes meet his.
And she smiles.
"You're not from here, are you?"
"I—no. I mean, yes. I mean—kind of?" He flushes. "Sorry, I'm bad at directions."
She laughs. Not mockingly. Just gently.
"Then you're in the right place. Everyone's a little lost here."
---
They sit on the steps outside the luthier's shop, organizing her papers. She doesn't ask questions. Just chats.
"Are you a musician?" she asks.
"I play a little. I'm… with a group. We're doing a show at La Marquise."
"La Marquise?" Her tone shifts. Just slightly. "Didn't think anyone still used that place."
"Yeah. It's… kind of magical. Dusty. But magical."
She looks away. A flicker of something in her eyes. Maybe pain. Maybe memory.
"You remind me of someone," she says."Oh?""Someone I used to trust."
That's when it hits him.The curve of her voice. The shape of her hands. The name Veritas mentioned.Lyselle.
He stares at her a little too long. She notices—but doesn't push.
"What's your name?"
"Lune.""Pretty name. Soft."
She hands him a page of music with a small doodle in the corner—something she composed, maybe.
"You should play this sometime. It suits you."
She stands, lifting the box again.
"Be careful who you follow, Lune."
He freezes.
"What do you mean?"
But she's already walking away.
---
He returns to the theater later, quieter than usual. He doesn't mention her. Not yet. But something in him has changed.
And somewhere in his coat pocket, a folded sheet of music hums softly, like a secret.
---
Lune is back at La Marquise. The troupe is scattered. Veritas is making late calls. Chéri is asleep on a velvet bench with a rose on his chest. Mr. Black is locked in the rehearsal room, not playing, just watching the piano.
Lune sits alone in the hallway near the stage, his coat still on. The folded sheet of music from Lyselle is in his hand—creased now, edges curled.
He keeps reading the same three notes. Over and over. Like they're supposed to say something.
She wasn't afraid of me. Not surprised. Not angry.She even smiled.
He replays it again—the way she looked at him. Like she already knew who he was. Like she had weighed him... and decided he was harmless.
She didn't act like someone on the run.She didn't act like someone who was caught.She acted like someone used to being hunted.
His hands tremble slightly.
He remembers what she said:
"Be careful who you follow."
Veritas always made it sound like she vanished out of spite.Mr. Black made it sound like she was lost.Rouge made it sound like she was avoiding the truth.Chéri didn't say anything.
But Lune?
He saw something different in her eyes:
She wasn't running away. She was waiting until it was safe to stop hiding.
And maybe… it had never been safe. Not with them.
He presses the sheet music to his chest and closes his eyes.
"What if we're not the ones chasing her?""What if we're the reason she disappeared?"