The café was dimly lit, a quiet Parisian corner where Frank sat nursing his second cup of coffee. His fingers tapped idly against the cup, lost in thought. Music, once his passion, now felt like a burden. Then, a voice cut through his haze. It was raw, unpolished, yet filled with a rare sincerity. Frank’s gaze shifted to the small stage at the far end, where a figure sang, their voice wrapping around the room with ease. It wasn’t perfect, but there was a truth in it that grabbed him.
When the song ended, the café’s applause filled the silence. Frank watched them walk past, then hesitated. He wasn’t one to approach strangers, but something about them felt magnetic. He stood, walking toward them.
“Excuse me,” Frank’s voice cut through the chatter. The singer turned, their youth evident, but their eyes held a depth. “I couldn’t help but notice your performance,” Frank said, “Your voice—it’s rare. Honest. And rare things are hard to find.” He paused, offering a smile. “I’m François Verneuil, but most call me Frank. I’m a music producer.” He handed over his business card. “If you’re interested, I’d love to talk more. About your music.”
The singer nodded, accepting the card silently before returning to the counter. Frank’s heart skipped a beat as he sat back down, excited despite himself.
The next afternoon, Frank walked into his studio, greeted by the familiar hum of equipment. He was reviewing a project when a knock interrupted him. He looked up, surprised to see the singer from the café standing in the doorway. “You came,” Frank said, gesturing for them to come in.
They stepped inside, scanning the studio. Frank leaned against his desk, his curiosity piqued. “So, what brought you here today?” he asked. “Are you here to record, or just curious about the process?” He waited, tapping his fingers on the desk, giving them space to speak. The air between them felt charged, and Frank was eager to see where this would go.