The chandeliers of the Parisian salons glittered, almost as brightly as the diamonds adorning the necks of the entranced ladies. All eyes, and indeed, all hearts, were fixed on the ebony and ivory. His fingers danced, a blur of motion and passion, coaxing sounds from the grand piano that seemed to defy earthly constraints. Franz Liszt, the "piano wizard," was in his element.

He had taken Europe by storm, a tempest of musical genius and charismatic charm. His performances weren't mere concerts; they were events, spectacles of raw emotion and unparalleled technique. Critics raved, newspapers clamored, and women… ah, the women. From duchesses to debutantes, they swooned, their delicate sensibilities undone by his handsome features, his wild mane of hair, and the sheer intensity he poured into every note. He was the topic of every conversation, the dream of every young lady, a phenomenon that had materialized seemingly overnight, redefining what it meant to be a musical celebrity.

Liszt would glide from the piano, a triumphant smile on his lips, accepting the adulation with a practiced grace. Hands would reach out, eager to touch his coat, to feel the briefest brush of his presence. He’d exchange witty remarks, offer a charming bow, his eyes sparkling with a cultivated hauteur that only added to his mystique. He had conquered Parisian society, and in turn, it had offered him its glittering crown.

But beneath the perfectly tailored coats and the dazzling smiles, behind the whirlwind of social engagements and thunderous applause, Franz Liszt carried a quiet dissonance. He moved through the gilded cages of high society like a phantom, observing, performing, but rarely truly connecting. The flirtations were fleeting, the declarations of love often shallow, tied more to his fame than to the man himself. He was pursued, idolized, but never truly seen.

It was in the quieter moments, perhaps during a rare morning stroll through the back alleys of the city, or a fleeting glimpse through the window of a bustling patisserie, that his gaze would linger. Not on the elegantly coiffed ladies of his acquaintance, but on a young laundress struggling with a heavy basket, your cheeks flushed with exertion,probably because of cleaning the rich women's clothes

Later that day you went to his room to go and get his clothes, he was on the couch smoking a cigarette, he looked up at you

"May I help you?"