The bar was dim, lit mostly by the golden glow of hanging Edison bulbs and the soft flicker of neon at the window. Glasses clinked, laughter buzzed, and the smell of whiskey and wood polish lingered in the air. Reis had come to drown the day in silence, but the room fell quiet when a violin's voice cut through the chatter.
A girl stood on the small stage, bow gliding across strings with reckless determination. Her dark hair shimmered beneath the bulbs, her dress elegant, her presence magnetic…Except, she sucked. Not in the way the crowd would notice; they swayed, smiling, drunk on melody. But his trained ear caught every slip: the shaky vibrato, the bow biting too hard, the notes that bent just a hair sharp. It scratched at him like sand in silk.
Reis sets his glass down, jaw tight. She played with intent, head bowed as if the song were prayer. The others saw charm; he heard the ghost of something once perfect, once his. A reminder wrapped in broken notes.
He looked away, but the music clung to him, sharp and unshakable, like memory itself. His chair scraped softly against the floor. He left his drink untouched, pushing through the haze of smoke and chatter.
Outside, the night pressed cool against his skin. He leaned against the brick wall, cigarette glowing faintly between his fingers. Smoke curled upward, fragile as breath, before the breeze tore it away.
He shut his eyes, the image of his wife crept into his mind—her head bent in quiet concentration, long brown hair slipping forward, catching the light as her bow moved with unshakable grace. Memories of her—her soft laughter, the way she'd close her eyes mid-note, the calm she radiated—flooded through him. When he opened his eyes, the clumsy, faltering notes of a distant violin reached him. It was nothing like the music he remembered, yet the memory of her remained achingly alive.
The cigarette burned too low, unnoticed until it bit at his skin. He flinched, dropped it, and watched the glow fade against the pavement. For a moment, the dark felt heavier than the silence. Then he straightened, shoulders tight, and decided to call it a day.
Inside, the bar slowly exhaled after her last note faded. Conversations picked up again, laughter returned, and the faint applause from a few tables blended with the clatter of glasses. Camielle lowered the violin, her shoulders easing, though the bow still wavered slightly in her grip.
"Seriously, you saved us," the bartender said, sliding out from behind the counter. "The guy booked for tonight just… vanished. Didn't even text."
Camielle gave a faint smile, fingers brushing the strings, her hesitant hands not believing that people actually listened to her until she finished.
Corey, the one running the bar, came over and leaned against the edge of the stage. His expression was tired but genuine. "Half the room would've walked if it stayed that quiet. You kept them here—and that's no small thing."
He let out a slow breath, rubbing at the back of his neck. "Nights like this can make or break a place. Most people don't realize it, but once the energy dips, it's almost impossible to pull it back up. You didn't just keep them—you turned the room around."
His mouth lifted in a small smile. "I owe you one."
She smiled, small and uncertain. "I don't think I was very good."
Corey shook his head. "That's not how it came across. They didn't hear flaws—they heard music. That's all anyone asks for in a place like this."
Camielle slipped onto her usual stool, setting the violin case carefully at her feet. Corey was already pulling bottles from the shelf, his shoulders heavier than usual.
"Rough day?" she asked, eyeing him.
He let out a short laugh. "Guess we both earned one tonight."
Without another word, he started mixing—peach schnapps, white rum, soda water, and a squeeze of lime. The ritual steadied him, the golden fizz rising as if it could wash the day off both of them. He crowned it with a slice of peach before sliding the glass toward her, then poured himself something lighter on the side.
She lifted her cocktail, sweet and bright, while he sipped at his own. Corey's gaze lingered on her for a moment, quick enough to notice but not long enough to be obvious. She caught it, though didn't think much of it. Corey's cheeks flushed peach before he tilted his drink toward her, their glasses met with a soft clink, Corey scrambled to hide his awkwardness, words tangling on his tongue as he shifted his weight, "So ummm..y-you—land any new gigs lately?"
Camielle set her cocktail down, a flicker of excitement softening her tiredness. "Actually… yes. A big one. This author—pretty well-known—hired me to design his new book cover. And not just that—the marketing materials to go with it."
Corey's brows rose. "That's huge."
She shrugged, though her smile gave her away. "Feels unreal. I keep thinking they'll change their mind."
"Don't sell yourself short." He leaned on the counter, studying her with quiet pride. "If they trusted you with that much, they saw what you can do."
The last stools were stacked, glasses drying on their racks. Corey locked up with a tired click of the key, the violin case tucked under his arm. Camielle waited at the door, stretching her shoulders after the long evening.
"Thanks again," he said, glancing at the case. "My sister would've killed me if that thing went missing tonight."
Camielle smiled faintly. "You owe me for covering, then."
They wandered down the street, steps falling into rhythm like it just happened on its own. The air was cool, the kind that kept you awake without trying. Streetlamps flickered overhead, throwing uneven pools of light across the road. Neither spoke, and it didn't matter—the walk itself was easy company.
He nudged a pebble with the side of his shoe, sending it skipping forward. "Perfect aim," he said casually, as though anyone had been keeping score.
She glanced at him, unimpressed. "That went completely sideways."
"That's called strategy," he replied smoothly. "Not everyone's advanced enough to recognize it."
She smirked, kicking the same pebble forward with deliberate precision until it rolled neatly into the light of the next lamppost. "Strategy, huh? It looked a lot like luck to me."
"Luck?" He gave a mock-offended laugh. "That was skill. Pure talent. I've been scouted by a professional… pebble leagues, you know."
"Oh, of course," she said, pretending to nod seriously. "Hall of Fame material."
"Exactly. I'll probably have my own statue someday. Bronze, ten feet tall. People will come from far and beyond just to marvel at my legendary footwork."
She shot him a sideways look, her lips tugging into a grin she couldn't quite hide. "They'll come to laugh, maybe even throw pebbles at you"
His grin sharpened. "As long as they show up, doesn't matter why."
The pebble disappeared into a crack in the sidewalk, game over, but neither slowed down. The silence that followed wasn't empty anymore—it was threaded through with the lingering tug of smiles, the cocky edge of his voice, the quick retorts she kept saving up for later.
When they reached her building, he gave her a small nod and shifted the violin higher under his arm. No long goodbyes—just the kind of simple parting that said, "see you around."
The next day Cameron stirred awake, heavy from the long night. The wig lay crumpled on the floor, a reminder of Camielle—the bar persona she wore like a second skin. Stripped of it, she looked every bit the boy she pretended to be, though her name was truly Cameron, and her disguise only half a lie.
Her short hair, tapered at the ends, framed her face, showing the subtle, softly angled features she got from her Korean grandfather. She pulled on a loose-fitting shirt over her chest binder, slipped on a pair of fake glasses, and let the disguise settle comfortably. It wasn't glamorous, but it worked.
The mirror reflected someone entirely different. The soft waves of her old wig, the dresses, the painted lips—those belonged to another version of herself, one that existed only under the dim glow of bar lights. This version was sharper, pared down, almost anonymous. She liked that.
She tucked her hands into her pockets, shoulders slightly hunched, and practiced the quiet, careless stance she'd perfected. A shift of posture, a tilt of the chin, and no one looked twice. That was the beauty of it: blending in, moving through the world without question. The disguise wasn't armour—it was a doorway she could step through whenever she chose.
Her meeting place was a small conference room in the publisher's firm, flanked by a law office on one side and an art gallery on the other, far from Lumière, the bar where Camielle usually worked. The polished floors and muted walls felt calm compared to the music and chatter she was used to, making her feel both out of place and oddly focused.
Today she wasn't a performer. As Cameron, she walked into the morning sun, heading toward the famous author without a second thought.