They call it Paris. But I know better. This city is a shadow of itself, a place where dusk lingers too long, and the river reflects not the sky, but memory. The clocks here don't strike twelve. They strike thirteen. And when they do, something ancient stirs.
I call it Nocturne. It's the only name that fits.
Every evening, I walk to the river with my easel and my paints. I sit beneath the broken clock tower, where the fog curls like breath, and I paint the man I've never met.
Storm-grey eyes. Bone-white violin. A smile that feels like remembering.
He appears in every painting, always different, always the same. In one, he stands beneath a burning sky. In another, he reaches for me across a battlefield. In the newest, he plays a violin as the city dissolves into mist.
I haven't painted that one yet. But I see it in my dreams.
People say my art moves when no one's looking. That the man inside them shifts, breathes, mourns. That if you stare long enough, you'll hear a melody soft, golden, eternal.
Every time they ask me who he is. I always say, "Someone I must have loved… once. Maybe in another time."