The soft rustling of fabric, the muted echo of footsteps backstage, and the distant buzz of an audience beyond the curtain—all of it felt oddly surreal to Julien Moreau.
He stood in the wings of the Théâtre de la Ville, heart pounding not from nerves, but from disbelief.
Twelve years ago, I watched this moment from the shadows... now I'm standing in the light.
"Composer Moreau," came a whisper beside him.
It was Claire Sorel, dressed in a flowing black dress, her violin case in hand.
"You look tense."
Julien exhaled slowly and shook his head.
"No… just taking it in."
She smiled.
"I'm nervous too. But excited."
He looked at her, truly looked—and realized how far they had come. Their snowman from days ago felt like the start of something quietly significant.
The venue lights dimmed.
The MC's voice boomed through the speakers:
"Tonight, for the first time on this stage, we welcome composer Julien Moreau, presenting Snowman, performed by Pierre Lemoine and accompanied by Claire Sorel on violin."
Applause followed.
Julien's stomach flipped, but he stepped forward.
The grand piano at center stage gleamed under the spotlight. Julien adjusted the bench, breathed in—and placed his fingers on the keys.
Across from him stood Pierre Lemoine, mic in hand, calm as ever. Claire stood just to the side, violin ready, eyes closed in focus.
A hush fell over the crowd.
Then—
Ding...
Julien played the opening note.
Soft, melancholic. Like a snowflake landing on cold marble.
The melody unfolded slowly, weaving around the stillness like a gentle snowfall.
Pierre's voice joined in—warm and soulful. His tone, perfectly matched to Julien's arrangement, drew an audible sigh from the audience.
And when Claire's violin entered, it soared like wind between rooftops—elegant, ethereal, and piercing.
Julien wasn't aware of time passing.
He wasn't even aware of the hundreds watching him.
His world was reduced to vibration, emotion, and memory—filtered through music.
This wasn't just a performance.
It was a confession.
When the final note faded, silence lingered.
Then came the sound that shattered it all—an explosion of applause.
Not polite. Not moderate.
It was thunderous.
The audience rose to their feet.
Julien blinked, disoriented.
Pierre bowed once, then gestured toward him.
"Please give your applause to the man who brought Snowman to life—Julien Moreau."
Julien stood, heart hammering, and bowed deeply.
For a brief moment, he locked eyes with Claire.
She nodded once, her expression filled with pride.
Backstage was a flurry of voices, compliments, and industry scouts exchanging glances. Jacques Chevalier appeared moments later, grinning wide.
"You've officially arrived, Julien."
Julien only smiled faintly.
It wasn't about fame.
Not anymore.
It was about being heard.
It was about connecting.
And tonight—he had.