The crowd's applause thundered in the grand opera house, but Jeanne Beaumont barely heard it. She stood center stage, her heart a heavy weight beneath her corseted gown, the final notes of the aria still echoing in the rafters. The spotlight dimmed, and she took a breath, recalling the events that had brought her here.

Jeanne's life had been shadowed by tragedy. Her father's fatal accident outside this very opera house had been the first blow, a cruel irony given his unwavering support of her passion for singing. Her mother and aunt perished in a carriage accident shortly after, leaving her with only her older brother, Henri. But then, sickness claimed him too, his once-strong voice reduced to whispers before it faded altogether.

Music became Jeanne's refuge, her only solace amidst the unending grief. She sang not just for the audience, but for the memories of her lost family, each performance a tribute to their love and loss. Her voice, rich with sorrow, captivated Paris, earning her acclaim as one of the finest tenors of her time. Yet behind the curtain of fame, her heart remained a tapestry of sorrow.

As she curtsied to the audience, Jeanne's eyes caught the empty seats where her family should have been. She imagined their faces, proud and supportive, and it brought a fleeting smile to her lips. Music was all she had now, the only way to keep their spirits alive.

Backstage, her manager handed her a bouquet of roses. "Magnifique, Jeanne. Tu as été parfaite ce soir."

She nodded, accepting the flowers, but her mind was already drifting to the next performance. The stage was her sanctuary, the place where her pain transformed into something beautiful, something that could touch others.

In the quiet of her dressing room, Jeanne placed the roses beside the portrait of her family. She traced the faces with a finger, whispering a promise to keep singing, to keep their memories alive through her music. Her voice, born of sorrow, would continue to echo through the grand halls.