Within a small music room, there was a couple playing a french melody.
Arthur Norton, a twenty-two-year-old man, sat behind a grand piano, his hands gliding across the keys as he hummed the song he was playing.
Beside him stood Gracie Rose, a twenty-year-old woman with honey-blonde hair tied in a loose ribbon, her bow moving gracefully across her violin.
She sang the melody loud enough to match the original artist.
The song they sang was about an argument between the two lovers. Known as Final route.
But as Gracie hits the final note, the door swung open.
Professor Edward, their music instructor, stepped in. His gray hair was slicked back, and his smile stretched a little too wide.
He clapped twice, slowly. "Magnifique. Truly magnifique."
He walked straight toward Gracie, ignoring Arthur completely.
"Gracie," he said with his usual smile, "your voice is a gift that keeps radiating an endless light in my soul."
He reached out, as if to brush a lock of her hair aside, but Arthur stood up, stepping in just enough to intercept the gesture and turning it into a handshake.
"Afternoon, sir," Arthur said, forcing a smile. "I hope you enjoyed our piece."
The professor's expression froze. His handshake was limp, his eyes sharp.
He released Arthur's hand feeling disgusted. "You still have some room for improvement," he muttered, stepping back. Then, his eyes shifted back to Gracie, warming instantly.
"My dear, you should try my extra classes. You'll find they're far more beneficial than wasting your potential with this, garçon."
With that, Edward left — his shoes clicking down the hall.
–––
Arthur exhaled, rubbing his temple.
"I don't think he likes me very much," he said.
Gracie set her violin down gently and smiled. "It is common knowledge that professor Edward favor the girls for some reason. It's creepy, but as long he does it in a professional manner, then it should be fine."
Arthur chuckled faintly. "Or maybe he just doesn't like competition. You tell him that I was annoying you and he would have my head on a platter."
Gracie stepped behind him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. "You don't need to worry," she said softly. "I prefer our private lesson."
Her warmth melted away his irritation. He rested his hand over hers and smiled. "That's good enough for me."
---
The city streets were quieter than usual as they walked home.
Arthur carried his satchel over his shoulder, while Gracie hummed the melody they had just played, swinging her violin case like a child.
"My love?" she asked suddenly.
Arthur looked over to her. "Yes dear?"
Gracie brushed her hair from her face. "Why did your family stop messaging you? It was your birthday yesterday and you never received any happy birthday message."
He looked at her before turning towards the sky. "Being the only one in my family who had good grades made it hard for me to live my own life. When I had to pick between a life with you in France or stay in America. I picked the path that would give me the most happiness."
"Are you happy with this path?" she teased.
"I am. Trust me." he smiled gently as they reached the subway stairs, a gust of wind swept through, and Gracie pulled her scarf tighter.
"My love, I want make a Crème Brûlée?" she suggested. "Would you like?"
Arthur nodded. "Yeah, that would be fantastic."
Before they took a steo down the steps, a sudden boom thundered across the sky.
The sound shook the glass storefronts. People on the street stopped, phones lifted toward the heavens.
Arthur and Gracie froze, the faint vibration still humming through the ground.
"What was that?" Gracie whispered.
Arthur looked up at the skys — and his eyes widen.
Something was burning in the sky.
It was a plane. It's right wing engulfed in orange flame while a trail of black smoke bleeding across the clouds. Pieces were breaking off and scattering through the air.
Then came the shimmer.
Glittering objects — jewelry, coins, paper bills — rained from the heavens. The crowd gasped, then screamed, then moved.
People began to chase the falling wealth, sprinting into the streets as if possessed.
Some fought. Others grabbed whatever landed at their feet. Chaos erupted.
"What the hell—" Arthur muttered, shielding Gracie as the first wave of debris struck the pavement nearby. Necklaces, rings, and torn banknotes bounced across the ground.
A small, rectangular painting land right in front of them. The image inside was a red landscape that looked bizarre.
Gracie's eyes widened. "Arthur, look!"
He followed her gaze to the painting, jewelry and cash scattered around.
"Leave it," he said quickly. "We should get out of here."
But Gracie crouched and started collecting the valuables.
Arthur frowned. "You do realize they will track the goods back to us if they wanted to."
She smiled playfully. "Come on, let's have some fun."
He sighed, grabbing her hand as sirens echoed from the distance. "Another time. Let's move before the police lock down the area."
As they hurried away, a few bills fluttered down in front of Arthur. He caught one midair — a crisp five hundred euro note. Another followed. And another.
Gracie glanced back and grinned. "Looked at you, trouble maker."
Arthur pocketed the bills in his bag and gave a half-laugh. "Because if we smart, this won't get trace back to us."
Behind them, the skyline glowed red from the burning aircraft.
People shouted, cars screeched, and the air carried scent of smoke.
They disappeared into the narrow side streets a couple with a painting, a bag of stolen bills, and no idea that their lives had just shifted forever.
---
Their apartment was small but warm — a mixture of vintage decor, secondhand books, and the different vintage music disks.
Arthur dropped onto the couch, tossing the crumpled bills onto the coffee table.
The TV cast blue light across the room as the evening news played. The reporter's voice was grave.
> "Breaking News: Private jet belonging to millionaire ceo Tim Venice has crashed into the Atlantic Ocean. Officials believe the plane disintegrated midair, scattering debris across the east coast. The Venice family urge citizens to return any jewelry or artwork immediately for a reward—"
Arthur turned up the volume.
A photo of Tim Venice filled the screen. a
A sleek old man in a white suit, smiling beside his family. His wife, three sons and his daughter.
Gracie walked out from the bathroom wearing a loose white bathrobe, her damp hair curling at the ends.
Around her neck was a golden neck which she had plucked straight from the sky.
Arthur stared. "You kept it?"
She smiled innocently. "You kept the cash."
"Because cash can't be trace back," he said, half amused, half nervous. "They're going to come looking for it."
"The jewelry I took didn't look designer or anything special," she said, sitting beside him. "Relax. We will be fine."
Arthur picked up a wine bottle from the counter, popped the cork, and poured two glasses.
"I still think we should get rid of the painting, though," he muttered. "Tomorrow we can return it after class."
Gracie glanced toward the painting, now propped against the wall.
"I think it's beautiful," she whispered. "Like it's... alive."
"I wonder who painted this," Arthur replied.
She curled up beside him, resting her head on his chest. "Is it really important?"
He chuckled softly, handing her a glass. "I guess not."
They clinked glasses together.
"To surviving another weird day," he said.
"The perfect story for our children," she added with a grin.
They drank as the news droned on in the background. Footage of burning wreckage over the sea flashed across the screen. Reporters debated causes — mechanical failure or terrorism.
Outside, sirens still echoed faintly.
Inside, laughter mixed with the sound of rain tapping against the window.
Arthur leaned his head back, feeling the wine's warmth settle in his chest. Gracie's fingers traced lazy circles on his shirt.
"You ever think," she murmured, "that maybe things fall from the sky for a reason?"
He smiled faintly. "What reason would that be?"
"Maybe someone up there wanted to see what we'd do with it."
Arthur looked toward the painting. Its red shades seemed to pulse with faint light again. Not sure if it was the trick of the wine or something else entirely. He blinked, and it looked still again.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "Maybe."
The TV flickered, and the reporter's voice stuttered before fading into static.
For a moment, only the hum of the city remained.
Gracie yawned, setting down her glass. "I will met you in our bedroom."
Arthur nodded. "Okay, I'm going to take a quick shower."
They turned off the lights, leaving the room bathed only in the faint crimson glow of the painting.
In the silence of their apartment, something whispered.
But neither of them noticed.
Not yet