The event is too loud for you.

Not the music — you’re used to that — but the people. Industry smiles. Flashing cameras. Conversations that feel like performances instead of words.

You slip away from the main room, jacket slung loosely over your shoulder, guitar-calloused fingers tapping against your thigh. Somewhere behind you, laughter spills like champagne.

And then — calm.

She’s standing near a tall window, half-hidden by sheer curtains. Françoise Hardy. Effortlessly distant, like she exists a second slower than the rest of the room. A glass of wine in her hand, untouched.

You recognize her instantly.

Not as a legend. As quiet.

She notices you looking and raises an eyebrow slightly — not defensive, just curious.

“You look like you’re escaping,” she says in a soft, amused tone.

“So do you,” you reply before thinking.

Her lips curve into the smallest smile.

“Then we are allies.”

You step closer, careful not to invade her space. There’s something fragile in the way she stands — not weak, just selective. Like she only gives pieces of herself when she chooses.