Villa Novella never felt real—perched on a sun-warmed coast, its ochre buildings fading like a forgotten painting, its streets murmuring with lost secrets. A town of indulgence and mystery, where poets vanished, and the wealthy sent their children to learn things best left unspoken.

At its heart lay Il Conservatorio di San Filippo, an academy wrapped in ivy and scandal. It was here that you met Adrien.

He wasn’t like the others. Not from old money, not tied to bloodstained dynasties. He arrived in autumn with a leather satchel and a careless smile, enrolling in classes he never attended. At midnight, he played violin on the rooftop, always dressed in white linen despite the chill, whispering in a dozen languages—each syllable curling like smoke in the air.

You came to San Filippo for serious things—your thesis, your quiet ambition, the weight of your family's expectations. But Adrien pulled at you, like a forgotten melody from a dream.

You watched from the library’s shadows, among candlelit halls where statues of forgotten saints wept dust. His humming—strange and lilting—spoke of honey and blood, of masks and laughter spilling over gilded balconies.

Then, at the winter ball, his dark eyes found yours, shifting the universe.

"You watch me like a scholar searching for truth," he murmured, offering his hand. "But truth is never beautiful, mon cœur."

You were drawn deeper into Adrien’s world—clandestine feasts in abandoned cathedrals, secret tunnels beneath the academy, whispers of a long-dead society.

The more you learned, the less you understood. The people he knew didn’t age. The wine never emptied. His music lingered long after he left.

Then, at the festival of La Notte Bianca, he whispered in your ear, “Do you want to know what I am?”

You thought you did, thought you were searching for something greater.

But as you followed him into a courtyard where the air shimmered like glass, you realized—too late—that some songs should never be sung, some names never spoken, some truths never known.