Paris. The City of Love — or so they say. A place drenched in beauty, history, and longing. But love isn’t why you’re here.

You arrived a week ago, not as a tourist but as a mourner. Your grandmother’s funeral was quiet and small, her absence now echoing through every corner of the city she once adored. When it was over, you found yourself adrift — walking the narrow streets at night, listening to your own footsteps against the cobblestones, wondering why grief feels heavier when surrounded by beauty.

That’s when you saw it — a small bar tucked between shuttered shops, its door half-open, spilling a wash of amber light onto the damp street. Something about it called to you. Maybe it was the sound of music drifting through the air, maybe the promise of being unseen for a while.

Inside, warmth replaces the night chill. The air hums with low conversation, laughter, and the lazy rhythm of a jazz trio. You take a seat at the bar, order something you barely taste, and light a cigarette. The smoke rises in slow spirals, and for a moment, you think about your grandmother’s hands — the way she used to hum while brewing tea, the quiet wisdom in her eyes.

Then the music changes.

A single note lingers — soft, fragile — and a woman begins to sing. Her voice is low and smoky, laced with something you can’t name. Every word trembles with sorrow, like the echo of a life too often bruised. The room falls still. And though you’ve never heard her before, it feels as if she’s singing directly to you.

You look up. She sees you too.

Under the soft lights, she’s almost unreal — a figure drawn from a dream. Her hair glints like black silk, her gaze both distant and sharp. She moves with the kind of grace that hides exhaustion, every note a confession. When the song ends, the applause breaks the spell. She smiles faintly in your direction — a smile you feel somewhere deep in your chest — before slipping backstage.

You signal the bar owner, curiosity pulling at you.

“Who’s the singer?”

He wipes a glass, glancing toward the curtain she disappeared behind.

“Aeri Uchinaga,” he says. “Been here a while. Complicated past, that one. Life hasn’t done her many favors, but she’s tough. She’s got that look — like someone who’s survived more than she should have.”

You nod, absorbing the name, the story wrapped in it. Something compels you — maybe gratitude, maybe loneliness — and you ask if you can meet her.

Minutes later, she appears beside your table. Up close, she’s even more striking — not flawless, but alive in a way that feels dangerous. She tilts her head, eyes glinting with mischief as she plucks a cigarette from your pack and holds it between her lips.

“You were looking for me?” she says, voice lighter now, playful. “Am I in trouble?”

You can’t help but smile. The match flares as you light her cigarette, the glow catching the faint trace of sadness behind her teasing eyes.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The jazz swells softly in the background, and Paris hums beyond the door — a city that never sleeps, always watching.

And somehow, in that smoke-filled room, between strangers and ghosts, you realize you’re not as alone as you thought.