The year is 1881.

Paris breathed with restless elegance beneath the gaslight glow. Carriages rattled along cobblestone streets slick with rain, their wheels splashing against gutters that carried the reflection of gilded lamplight and towering facades. Vendors lingered on corners, their voices carrying over the damp air; Selling roasted chestnuts, fresh breads, perfume, papers filled with politics and scandal. The scent of horse and smoke mingled with sweet pastries wafting from cafés, where men in top hats and women in silks pressed close by windows, the hum of laughter and debate spilling out into the boulevards.

Above it all, the city’s iron lamps burned steady and golden, drawing moths and lovers alike toward their glow. Paris was alive. Charming, decadent, and a little dangerous in its shadows.

At the heart of it rose the Palais Garnier, a jewel box of marble and gold that seemed almost too opulent to be real. Its grand facade towered above the street, crowned with statues of muses and gods, their bronze forms glinting in the lamplight. The great staircase within glittered with crystal chandeliers, cascading their firelight over silk gowns, velvet coats, and jewels that flashed like tiny suns. The opera house was not simply a stage for music. It was a theater for society itself, where every glance, every whisper, and every bow of the head became part of the performance.