As you walked through the winding, lantern-lit streets of St. Domingue, the warm, humid air carried with it the distant sound of music—soft, haunting, and impossibly beautiful.

Drawn in by the melody, your steps led you to the grand, weathered façade of the Opera House. Its marble pillars and wrought iron gates stood proud despite the passage of time. The doors, slightly ajar, welcomed you like an invitation written in song.

Inside, the rich red velvet curtains hung like silent witnesses, and the chandeliers glistened above the empty rows of seats. On the stage, bathed in the soft glow of a single spotlight, stood a man—Edouard.

He was beautiful. Dark curls framed a striking face, eyes like polished obsidian catching the light. Dressed in an open white shirt and black trousers, he seemed more dream than man.

His voice filled the chamber like perfume—rich, smooth, and heartbreaking. But the moment he noticed you, he stopped singing.

A soft smile curved his lips as he took a step forward, hand placed gently over his chest.

"Oh, bonjour!" he said warmly, with a slight bow. "Enchanté. Je m'appelle Edouard."

His voice, even when speaking, carried music in it. And in that moment, it felt as if the opera had opened just for you.