The Forgotten Lullaby

In the smell of wood and sea salt, Éloi thought he could detect a fragrance, subtle and familiar — a breath of sea spray mingled with the warmth of sand.

Éloi saw Maëlle again, recalling their improvised lessons on the beach every afternoon. Leaning over him, she would show him how to hold the bow properly, how to place his fingers on the strings.

“You have to listen with your heart, Éloi,” she would say, laughing. “The music is already in the instrument, we just have to set it free.”

At every awkward squeak, she would burst into laughter, not to mock him, but with that radiant joy that made her irresistible.

“Éloi, you have to make the violin sing, not make it cry!” she would exclaim, wiping away a tear of laughter from the corner of her eye.

Then, without waiting, she would take her bow and show him again, patient and mischievous, how to tame the instrument.

He heard her laughter crackling like a wave breaking on a rock on a stormy day, more real than ever.

Éloi took a deep breath and carefully placed the instrument under his chin, then closed his eyes.

Under his hesitant fingers, the first stroke of the bow produced a rough, fragile sound, almost timid. But little by little, the melody began to emerge, rising from his memory like a ship coming out of the fog. He could feel Maëlle’s slender fingers sliding around his, guiding his movements gently.

“Remember, Éloi. Free the notes and listen with your heart...” it seemed she whispered to him across the decades.

Little by little, his fingers became more assured, more fluid, and the melody emerged, faint but alive. That melody, their melody, rose in the silent workshop, shy at first, then more confident. The simple yet captivating lullaby spoke of gentle waves caressing the shore, of the vast sky above the ocean, of freedom and eternity.

The music filled the small room, spilling out through the open window, blending with the rustling of the waves below. Éloi felt tears running down his weathered, scarred cheeks, but he didn’t stop playing. It was as if a dam had broken after decades, releasing a torrent of emotions long held in check. But his smile had never been so radiant.

Each note seemed to make the air vibrate around him; each vibration of the wood against his cheek awakened a buried memory, tender or painful.

He played until the last note faded into the night air. When he opened his eyes, the room was plunged into darkness. How long had he played ? A minute ? An hour ? Time seemed to have stood still.

He approached the window and was struck by the sight before him. The sea, usually restless at this time, was completely calm, like a giant sheet of glass. A light mist floated above the water, despite the clarity of the starry sky. It was as though the ocean itself had stopped to listen to him.

And in that mist, a still feminine silhouette stood on the beach, at the border between the sand and the water. She was waiting, peaceful, unafraid. The sea breeze played in her flowing hair and gently lifted her dress, as if she were floating between two worlds. Éloi hesitated for a second, instinctively reaching out his hand, unable to tear his gaze away.

His heart stopped for a moment. Then, before he could shout her name, she seemed to flicker in the mist.

“Maëlle ?” he whispered.

He hastily put down the violin and rushed out of the house, running down the steep path that led to the beach. His old legs protested, but he didn’t slow down. Each step kicked up a cloud of damp sand, and the salty air burned his lungs. His heart was pounding so hard it echoed in his temples. When he finally reached the shore, where he had seen the apparition, out of breath and trembling, there was no one there. Just the familiar sound of waves lazily washing up on the shore. The beach stretched out, empty, misty, like a forgotten world.

“Did I scare you, Éloi ?”

The voice startled him. It was just Maurice Le Braz, one of the last fishermen in the village, sitting on his overturned boat, smoking his pipe.

“I thought I saw... someone,” Éloi stammered, suddenly feeling ridiculous.

He sat heavily beside him, his heart still racing.

“I restored a memory… a violin I found on the beach after the last storm.”

Maurice took a slow draw from his pipe, his face impassive.

“I’ve heard that music before, the night of the tragedy,” he said simply. “It came from the ocean.”

Éloi stared at the strange mist on the horizon, hoping to catch sight of the mysterious silhouette again. It seemed to dance gently above the waves, moving, elusive. With every ripple of the waves, he thought he could discern a shape, a glimmer of light, a whisper carried by the wind.

“Do you believe in these stories, Maurice ?”

The old fisherman shrugged.

“I’ve spent over seventy years on these waters,” he said, exhaling a cloud of blue smoke. “I’ve seen things I can’t explain. The sea is full of secrets, and it guards them jealously like a precious treasure.”

Maurice tapped his pipe slowly against his boot, thinking.

“You know, Éloi… My grandmother used to say that sometimes, the souls lost at sea come back to listen to the music of the living. Especially when it’s a music they loved in life.”

He paused, his gaze lost in the darkness.

“Tonight... she came to listen to your music.”

They sat together in silence for a long moment, rocked by the steady breath of the ocean.

On the way back, Éloi found Saint Vincent stars on the first step of the stairs leading to his house. Little star-shaped fossils he hadn’t seen on his way down, which seemed to sketch a silent score. A score known only to the two of them.

That night, for the first time in years, Éloi slept deeply, without dreams, cradled by the song of the sea, that ancient whisper he had thought forgotten, but which still sang his name through the waves.