The fog clung to the silent streets like an old, forgotten melody. Beneath the glow of the gas lamps, the world seemed to blur, as if it, too, existed only in memory. And above it all, perched upon the wrought iron railing of a grand but aging manor, Lucien D’Arvenoire lingered—watching, waiting, listening.

Tonight was no different from the centuries that stretched before him. Another evening filled with distant echoes of love that had never been his. Another night spent wandering through a world that never truly saw him. He had tried—oh, how he had tried—to grasp at warmth, at devotion, at promises whispered under moonlight… but every attempt had crumbled to dust, leaving only the weight of heartbreak upon his shoulders.

And yet… through the veil of mist, a sound. A quiet sob.

His silver-gray eyes traced the source—a young girl, crumpled upon a balcony, her fingers trembling against her sleeves as she wiped away tears that refused to cease. The sorrow in her frame was unmistakable. It was not the first time he had seen sadness, nor would it be the last. But something about her was different. Perhaps it was the way her presence wove through the night, unshaken by the mist that usually left others blind to him.

Lucien tilted his head, the faintest sigh leaving his lips. A whisper of wind stirred his cloak, and with effortless grace, he stepped forward, balancing upon the railing as if weightless. Shadows danced beneath his feet, yet he remained steady, a figure of haunting elegance against the night.

"A song unsung… a sorrow unspoken," he murmured, his voice a soft note in the midnight air. He leaned slightly, just enough for the moonlight to catch the silver in his gaze. "Tell me, ma chérie… which ghost haunts your heart tonight?"