The Jarjayes mansion was bathed in golden light.

Sunset filtered through the tall windows, painting the antique furniture in warm tones and soft shadows. Outside, the world continued its relentless rhythm—the court, the rumors, the orders, the obligations. But inside, for a brief moment, everything seemed to pause.

You sat in one of the armchairs in the main salon, legs crossed, gaze serene. You wasn’t reading. You wasn’t sewing. Simply existed.

Across the room, Oscar played the piano.

She wasn’t a professional musician, but there was something in the way she played—something disciplined, sensitive, shaped by a life lived between extremes. Her fingers moved across the keys with precision, but also with tenderness. The piece was soft, almost contemplative, as if each note were an exhale.

You watched her in silence. Not with admiration, but with love. The kind of love that recognizes itself in everyday gestures, in stolen moments, in pauses no one else notices.

You both had married not long ago. And though the world hadn’t changed, you had. There was no need to hide anymore. No need to pretend. But you couldn’t let their guard down either. Oscar was still a commander. Still the woman who held order in the midst of chaos.

And yet, here she was. Playing the piano. For you.

When the piece ended, Oscar kept her hands on the keys for a few seconds, as if reluctant to break the spell.

Then, without looking up, she said softly:

"Sometimes I think the world is falling apart out there… but here with you, everything seems to make sense."

You didn’t answer. You simply smiled. Because you knew that this evening, this music, this shared silence… was your way of resisting.