The applause had faded, but its echo still pulsed in Julien Moreau's chest.
Backstage was a controlled chaos. Assistants rushed by with clipboards. Technicians coiled cables. A staff member offered Julien a bottle of water, which he took with a dazed "thank you."
"That was incredible," someone whispered as they passed. "I got goosebumps."
Julien sat on a folding chair in the corner, water bottle resting unopened on his lap. For the first time in years, he wasn't thinking about what to write next or what deadline loomed. He was still inside the song—the emotion of it, the connection, the moment it stopped being sound and became something else entirely.
He'd dreamed of this for so long.
And yet, it hadn't felt like a dream.
It felt real. Grounded. Earned.
Claire Sorel appeared beside him, still holding her violin. Her cheeks were flushed from the performance, a bit of hair sticking to her forehead.
"That was magical," she said, sitting beside him. "They loved it."
Julien looked at her, then down at the floor.
"I don't think I'll ever forget it."
Claire offered a soft smile. "Neither will I."
They sat in silence for a few moments, letting the adrenaline ease out of their systems.
Then Jacques Chevalier entered, as if propelled by the applause still ringing in his ears.
"Julien! There you are. The media wants quotes, and A&R is already drafting press releases. You wouldn't believe the calls I've been getting."
Julien stood slowly, blinking back to focus. "From who?"
"Universal. Sony. Even that indie label from Berlin you admire—Étoile. They all want to talk."
Julien raised an eyebrow. "Just from one song?"
Jacques laughed. "Not just a song—the song. This performance just made TW more relevant than it's been in five years. You might not realize it yet, but you didn't just make a name tonight. You made history."
Julien looked away, uncertain how to take the compliment.
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," he muttered.
But Jacques wasn't listening. He was already halfway down the hallway, phone pressed to his ear, issuing instructions.
Claire nudged him with her shoulder. "You should be proud."
Julien glanced at her and saw no irony, no teasing. Just sincerity.
He nodded. "I am."
The afterparty was held at a small but luxurious lounge near Montmartre. Dim lights, velvet curtains, and the low hum of jazz created an intimate atmosphere. Julien walked in, wearing the same black turtleneck and blazer he'd performed in. People turned. Smiled. Raised their glasses.
It felt surreal.
Pierre Lemoine was surrounded by a group of young fans near the bar. When he noticed Julien, he extricated himself and walked over.
"We nailed it," Pierre said simply.
Julien extended a hand, but Pierre pulled him into a hug instead.
"You ever think this day would come?" he asked.
Julien shook his head. "Not like this."
"Well, believe it. The phones are ringing. I heard they want us on two talk shows next week."
Julien's expression tensed slightly. Media was never his strong suit.
"You'll be fine," Pierre said with a knowing grin. "You've got the music. People will follow."
A few hours later, Julien found himself standing on the rooftop balcony, looking out at the Eiffel Tower in the distance. Claire joined him a few minutes later, two cups of champagne in hand.
"You keep disappearing," she said.
"I needed air."
She handed him a cup.
They clinked glasses.
"To second chances," Claire said.
"To doing it right this time," Julien replied.
They drank in silence.
Then Claire said something that made him pause.
"You looked happy tonight. Really happy. I haven't seen that before."
Julien turned to face her, eyes sincere.
"That's because I was."
She looked like she wanted to say something more, but held back. Instead, she reached into her purse and pulled out a folded piece of paper.
"What's this?"
"A fan letter. From someone in the audience. They gave it to me backstage and asked me to pass it to you."
Julien opened the paper.
Your song gave me hope tonight. I was ready to give up, but Snowman reminded me that even cold seasons have beauty. Thank you.
His fingers tightened slightly around the page.
"I don't even know who wrote this."
"You don't have to," Claire said softly. "They know who you are."
Julien folded the paper and put it carefully in his inner pocket.
"You know," he said after a moment, "I used to think success was measured in awards, numbers, money."
Claire raised an eyebrow. "And now?"
"Now I think it's measured in letters like that."
She smiled.
They stood there a little longer, side by side, watching Paris glow in the night, not saying a word.
And for the first time in both his lives, Julien Moreau felt truly seen.
And truly alive.