Chapter 3:
The Looped Lovers
She froze.
The soft hiss of vinyl static. Then: a waltz. Old. Dreamlike. Slightly out of tune. She didn’t remember saving this track. It wasn’t part of any playlist. It just… played.
She leaned back, closed her eyes, and let the music fill the room.
The rain tapped gently on her window.
And somewhere far from the present, under gold-drenched street lamps, another life began.
Paris, 1926.
Montmartre was alive—buzzing with color and laughter and jazz that poured out of bars like perfume. Writers sipped absinthe on crooked balconies. Painters spilled oils onto torn canvas. And dancers like Léa lit the night on fire.
Xenon watched her from the corner of the club, smoke curling around his fingers as he nursed his drink.
She moved like a secret.
The band played something upbeat, but her hips slowed it down, turned it into something sultry, deliberate. She wasn’t the star of the night—there were bigger names, louder girls—but the room changed when she danced.
He took out his notebook. Drew a line.
Then another. Her outline appeared without him thinking.
After her set, she passed him on her way to the bar. Her lipstick was a deep red. Her laugh was warm, but her eyes… they were scanning.
Until they landed on him.
“You’re staring,” she said in French.
He shrugged. “You’re worth looking at.”
She paused. Then gave him a smirk.
“Another poet. I should start charging.”
He smiled, just barely. “You already do.”
They met again a week later, on a rooftop behind the club. She was barefoot, in a silk slip, legs crossed over the edge of the building. Smoking a cigarette like it was a ritual.
He didn’t ask to sit. He just did.
They sat in silence for a long time.
“I’ve seen you in my dreams,” she said eventually.
He turned to look at her.
“Always just your eyes. Staring at me like you’re waiting for something.”
“And how do the dreams end?” he asked.
She flicked the ash. “I always wake up.”
They were inseparable after that.
Their days were full of nothing important—just long walks, art galleries, alleys filled with fading posters. They shared cheap wine, open notebooks, songs sung in stairwells. He read her fragments of stories he hadn’t finished. She danced for him in tiny rooms, in candlelight, barefoot on worn floorboards.
She called him “mon ombre.”
My shadow.
Always there. Always behind her.
He called her “une lumière qui ne brûle pas.”
A light that doesn’t burn.
They didn’t ask questions. Didn’t talk about forever. Just now. That was enough.
The last night came without warning.
Léa was performing at a crowded dance hall—more guests than usual, louder music, sharper lights.
Xenon waited backstage with a letter in his coat pocket. He didn’t plan to give it to her. But he wanted to have it. Just in case.
She looked radiant. Her hair pinned up with little flowers. A silver dress that shimmered like falling snow.
He watched her from behind the curtain.
She glanced over her shoulder, saw him, and smiled like the whole world existed just for that moment.
Then the fire began.
A single spark. A careless match. A curtain igniting faster than anyone could react.
Screams.
Flames licked the ceiling before the music even stopped.
Xenon ran in, pushing through panicked bodies, smoke clawing at his lungs.
He found her near the back, trying to guide people toward the exit.
He grabbed her arm. She turned, eyes wide.
They didn’t speak.
They just held on to each other.
The ceiling cracked.
And the world vanished in orange.
Present day.
Lana sat still, eyes wide, headphones forgotten around her neck.
The melody was still playing. But softer now. Slower.
She touched her chest. Her heart was racing.
She didn’t know why—but she felt like someone had just died.
[END OF CHAPTER 3]
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