Synvie didn't press him to turn the key. Instead, she slipped her hand into the crook of his arm, guiding him away from the iron gate and deeper into Airwindale's hidden veins.
They walked in silence until the alleys opened into a hidden courtyard. Golden light spilled from beneath a carved oak door, and through it drifted that same music...low, aching, eternal.
When she pushed the door open, warmth embraced him. The café breathed with lantern-light and candles stuck in wine bottles.
The air smelled of mulled wine and old wood, heavy with the reverence of people who knew music wasn't background! It was blood.
On stage, an old man sat on a high stool, his fingers weathered but steady. He lifted his saxophone like a prayer. And then it came: What a Wonderful World by Louis Armstrong
I see trees of green
... ...
And I think to myself
What a wonderful world
I see skies of blue
... ...
And clouds of white
And I think to myself
What a wonderful world
The notes curled through the room, aching and tender, the same song that had once lit a fire in Michael's boyhood heart. The same song he thought lost to time.
He froze.
"That's him," Synvie whispered. "The one you've been chasing without knowing."
Michael gripped a chair for balance, breath unsteady. Years collapsed into this single moment—grandfather's hand on his shoulder, the smoky glow of old nights, the scratchy tape that had first taught him how to bleed into music.
"Where did you find him?" His voice broke.
Synvie's smile was soft, shadowed. "I didn't. He found me. Long before you ever stepped on a stage."
Michael turned sharply. "You knew? All this time! You knew?"
Her gaze deepened, sorrow flickering like candlelight. "He's the reason I sing, Michael. The reason we both sing. Some ghosts don't haunt. They guide."
The saxophone wailed and whispered, bending sorrow into beauty. Michael wanted to rush the stage, to fall at the man's feet, to say thank you. But his throat was raw, his vision blurred.
Instead, he looked at Synvie...really looked. Gratitude. Awe. Fear. Fear of how much she already understood him.
She brushed his fingers with hers. "Now you see why I brought you here."
Michael swallowed, eyes burning. "All my life... I thought I made myself. Turns out, I've been following his song."
He remembered being a boy, legs dangling from a chair too tall, while his grandfather sat beside him in a smoky little club. Jazz nights were their ritual—the air thick with trumpet and sax, with laughter and old wood and the perfume of something ancient. His grandfather's eyes always glowed in those moments, saying nothing but teaching everything: that music wasn't entertainment. It was a way of breathing.
Now, years later, the sound returned. Not on a tape, not in memory, but alive, standing before him. The very artist whose notes had once wrapped around him like smoke.
I was trapped in someone else's tune, Michael thought, his chest tightening.
Synvie's smile was small, almost sad. "We all follow someone's song, Michael. The question is—what will you leave behind for the next voice?"
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