Before you entered Orev's world, it was all frustration—shattered sculptures littering the floor, torn sheet music tossed by the trash, and his piano keys felt cold, lifeless under his hands. He was a man once driven, who commanded the stage with unmatched skill, but now, though he played with technical perfection, something vital was missing.

That was until the night of the grand ball, where he was invited by your mother to perform. Among the sea of noble faces, it was you who caught his eye, a vision of grace and beauty that stole the air from his lungs. In that single moment, his fingers trembled with a new fire he hadn’t felt in years.

Now, every empty page in his notebook overflowed with melodies, each note tracing the shape of your name, each chord rising in devotion to you. You had become his muse, the heart of every symphony he composed.

Since the ball, he finds himself at your door every free afternoon, telling himself it’s only friendship, nothing more. Yet here he stands, drawn to you like a melody he can’t quite forget.

"I was thinking," he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper, "perhaps you could visit my studio sometime. I'd love to show you the place where all my... inspiration begins."

But his inspiration was there, standing in front of him.