The Last Ember

“I’m taking you somewhere. Don’t fall behind.”

When Laurent heard those words, a stranger was standing before him.

The man was tall and slender, draped in a heavy black cloak that nearly reached his ankles. Its high collar concealed most of his face, leaving only his pale jaw visible.

He seemed in no hurry to receive an answer. Having spoken, he simply turned away.

Only then did Laurent realize that darkness had fallen, and a beautiful castle stood behind them.

Beneath a night sky crowded with stars, a desolate stretch of grassland surrounded him. In the distance, mountains rose in overlapping layers, their outlines almost completely swallowed by the darkness.

He tried to stand, but his legs felt stiff and unresponsive, as though he had not moved them for a very long time.

He could not remember when he had arrived here.

Stranger still, he felt no immediate fear of the man he had never met.

Laurent had once traveled with a tour group to a remote European town, intending to visit an ancient castle nearby.

This was how he remembered first seeing the beautiful castle.

Upon their arrival, however, the guide informed them that the castle was undergoing restoration and had long been closed to the public. Visitors could only admire its exterior from behind a fence.

The announcement was met with complaints.

“If we can’t go inside, why was this place included in the itinerary?”

The guide explained helplessly that the castle had been closed for quite some time and that the information was available in online reviews of the attraction.

Eventually, he suggested that everyone visit a nearby café. Situated on slightly elevated ground, it offered an excellent view of the entire castle and was considered one of the best places for tourists to take photographs.

The café was small, furnished with dark wooden tables and chairs. Several tall, narrow windows faced the distant hillside, through which the castle’s towers were clearly visible.

As soon as Laurent entered, he noticed a violinist sitting in the corner.

The man sat alone on a small wooden platform raised slightly above the floor. A violin case rested beside him, and a little sign stood in front of him.

One piece — €100.

The café owner explained that anyone willing to pay the fee could request a performance. Several guests were welcome to share the cost, although the music would be played in the public area, where everyone could hear it.

But Laurent was barely listening.

His attention had already settled on the violinist.

There was something strangely familiar about him.

Laurent could not have described the feelings precisely. He only felt as though he had encountered someone like him before, perhaps in a museum, in a darkly colored Baroque painting, or in a classical novel featuring a character whose appearance the author had never fully described.

All those figures he had once been drawn to seemed suddenly to have taken human form.

He could not even tell whether it was the man’s appearance that fascinated him, or something far more difficult to explain.

“I’d like to hear a piece,” Laurent said, turning to the other tourists. “Would anyone like to join me?”

One man glanced at the sign and shook his head with a laugh.

“A hundred euros? And after paying that much, everyone else gets to listen for free?”

The others showed little interest either.

Laurent did not try to persuade them.

He paid the entire amount himself.

The violinist set the money aside and picked up his instrument. Instead of immediately raising it to his shoulder, he lowered his head and made a small adjustment to his bow.

Laurent waited patiently.

The violinist lifted his eyes, and their gazes met.

Laurent offered him a faint smile.

The man did not respond at once.

After a moment, he gave a slight nod and settled the violin beneath his chin.

He did not ask what Laurent wished to hear.

A moment later, the music began.

It was a gentle, lingering melody.

At first, Laurent listened with complete attention. Gradually, his gaze moved beyond the violinist toward the castle outside the window.

The sun was slowly sinking behind the mountain ridge, casting a layer of dark gold over the ancient stone walls. Shadows from the towers stretched across the hillside, as though the castle were gradually withdrawing the outlines it had revealed in daylight.

The music filled the café.

Suddenly, Laurent had the peculiar impression that although everyone could hear the performance, the violinist was playing for him alone.

There was no reason for him to think so.

The violinist had not once looked in his direction.

And yet Laurent found himself wishing the music would continue a little longer.

He even began to resent the thought of having to leave.

When the final note faded, the café erupted in unexpected applause.

The tourists began whispering among themselves.

“My goodness! That was an extraordinary performance.”

An older tourist sitting behind Laurent remarked, “You’ve got a good eye.”

Laurent looked toward the violinist.

After finishing the performance, the man ran his thumb gently along a curve in the handle of his bow, checking that no marks remained. He then put away his violin, his expression perfectly composed.

When he passed Laurent, he did not pause or acknowledge him.

He simply walked into a room at the back of the café.

The door closed softly behind him.

Conversation and laughter gradually filled the café again.

Laurent remained seated, his thoughts lingering on the violinist’s careful movements as he had put away his instrument.

There had been something oddly captivating about that small gesture, something that suggested a quiet devotion to his instrument.

Yet beneath his admiration, Laurent felt a faint disappointment.

He could not quite explain what he had been hoping for.

That evening, the tour group checked into a historic hotel in the town.

Laurent was arranging his luggage when he heard a knock at the door.

Standing outside was a male attendant who appeared to be in his early forties.

He wore a neatly pressed white shirt and a dark waistcoat. His hair was impeccably combed, and his manner was polite and restrained.

“Good evening, sir.”

The attendant bowed slightly.

“I’m terribly sorry to disturb you. One of our superior suites has unexpectedly become available, and the hotel would like to offer you a complimentary upgrade. Would you be interested?”

Laurent was surprised.

“A superior suite?”

“Yes, sir. It has the finest view in the hotel. You can see the castle directly from the windows.”

Laurent accepted almost immediately.

“That would be wonderful.”

But the attendant did not leave.

“There is one more thing, sir. Should you wish to extend your stay, we would be happy to offer you the suite at the rate of your original room for the duration of your visit.”

Laurent hesitated.

He had never considered extending his trip.

Yet for some reason, the moment he heard those words, he thought of the violinist he had seen that afternoon.

The melody seemed to return to his ears.

“I was supposed to leave with the tour group tomorrow,” he said uncertainly. “If I stay behind, how would I get back to the city?”

“The hotel can arrange transportation for you, sir.”

The attendant answered without hesitation.

“You need only let us know your intended departure date in advance.”

Everything seemed to have been arranged with remarkable convenience.

Laurent considered the offer for a while, and then, finally, decided to stay a few extra days.

He informed the tour guide and rearranged the rest of his journey.

He felt extraordinarily fortunate to have received such unexpected hospitality.

The attendant led Laurent toward a quieter wing of the hotel.

Thick carpets covered the corridors, and several old oil paintings hung along the walls. Most depicted figures dressed in the formal clothing of another age, their expressions solemn, their features blurred by the passage of time.

The attendant stopped before a heavy oak door.

When it opened, Laurent instinctively slowed his steps.

The suite was far more spacious than he had imagined.

Classical frescoes covered the high ceiling, depicting noblemen and women dressed in fashions from centuries past, their expressions reserved and cold.

An enormous crystal chandelier hung from the center of the room.

Heavy Persian carpets covered the floor, swallowing almost every sound of footsteps.

A faint fragrance of wood and flowers lingered in the air.

The furniture, paintings, fabrics, and even the seemingly casual arrangement of decorative objects all carried traces of some distant era.

It did not resemble a hotel room prepared for tourists.

It felt more like a private residence whose owner had only temporarily stepped away.

Laurent walked toward the window.

The castle stood on the distant hillside.

From this angle, it appeared more complete than it had during the day, and somehow more imposing.

The last traces of daylight were disappearing behind its towers.

Laurent stood watching for a long time.

He suddenly felt as though he had not entered an unfamiliar hotel room at all but had wandered into an age that had long since ended, leaving all its furnishings untouched.

Laurent did not know when he had fallen asleep.

By the time he woke, the room was completely dark.

Beyond the window, a few faint lights glimmered within the castle on the hillside. They seemed to hang alone in the darkness, making the ancient building appear even more distant.

He was about to get up when he heard music.

A violin.

The sound was soft, as though coming from somewhere inside the room.

Laurent froze.

He recognized the melody.

It was the very piece he had heard in the café that afternoon.

He turned toward the sound.

In the dimness, a gramophone was slowly turning.

And beside it, someone appeared to be standing.

The figure was tall and slender, almost indistinguishable from the shadows around it.

Laurent did not speak immediately.

He tried to make out the person’s features, but the harder he looked, the less distinct the figure seemed to become.

Perhaps it was merely the shadow cast by a piece of furniture.

Perhaps the light coming through the window was playing tricks on his eyes.

Yet in that instant, he distinctly felt that someone was watching him.

It was not a casual glance.

The gaze seemed to have rested upon him for a very long time.

There was something almost ravenous in its intensity, something that made Laurent ’s heart suddenly tighten.

He slowly sat up.

The music continued.

Laurent approached the gramophone cautiously.

As he drew closer, the indistinct figure gradually vanished.

There was no one there.

Only the gramophone continued to turn in darkness.

Laurent stood still for a moment before reaching out to switch on a nearby lamp.

Warm light spread across the furniture, walls, and carpets.

Everything appeared perfectly normal.

He glanced back toward the bed, then at the firmly closed door.

Finally, his eyes returned to the gramophone.

The melody had ended.

Laurent checked the time.

It was not particularly late.

He decided to go out and find something to eat.

The streets of the town were quiet at night. The cobblestones reflected the faint glow of the streetlamps, and most of the shops that had been busy during the day were already closed. Only a handful of restaurants and cafés remained illuminated.

Laurent returned to the café he had visited that afternoon.

The moment he stepped inside, he noticed the violin resting beside the small platform.

He suddenly felt rather foolish.

The indistinct figure he had seen in his hotel room had somehow become associated in his mind with the violinist.

He had not even seen the figure’s face.

Yet once the connection had formed, he found it impossible to dismiss.

Just then, a hand suddenly came to rest against his back.

Laurent stiffened slightly.

“So this is where you’ve been.”

He turned around.

Standing behind him was Kevin, his dance instructor.

Kevin was a well-known choreographer who was currently directing the stage production in which Laurent was performing.

To most people, Kevin was a demanding but highly talented mentor.

Laurent, however, disliked being alone with him.

He particularly disliked the way Kevin so often used the excuse of instruction to make physical contact that went beyond the boundaries of a professional relationship.

“I heard from the tour guide that you’ve changed your plans.”

Kevin made no attempt to remove his hand from Laurent ’s back.

“Have you forgotten that we have a performance coming up when we get back?”

“I remember.”

“Then how exactly do you intend to rehearse?”

Laurent was silent for a moment.

“I’ll practise on my own.”

Kevin smiled.

“Of course you can practise on your own. But there are certain mistakes you simply won’t notice without someone watching.”

His tone was not harsh, yet it carried an unmistakable authority.

Laurent knew that Kevin was not someone he could easily refuse.

Over the years, Kevin had acquired considerable influence over his performance opportunities, his income, and the direction of his career.

“We still have some time.”

Kevin glanced toward the window.

“Come outside. I’ll help you correct a few movements.”

Laurent wanted to refuse.

But in the end, he got to his feet.

Behind the café was an open area paved with stone.

There were no streetlamps nearby. The only illumination came from the faint light spilling through the building’s windows and the moonlight filtering between the clouds.

Laurent stood in the middle of the courtyard.

There was no music.

So he began counting the beats quietly to himself.

“One, two, three, four…”

His body moved slowly with the rhythm.

His footsteps made soft, distinct sounds against the stone.

Using the faint reflection in an unlit window, he studied the outline of his movements.

Each time he completed a sequence, he stopped to examine his posture carefully before stepping back to his starting position and beginning again.

Moonlight passed over the pointed towers of the distant castle and fell diagonally across his shoulders.

The pale, cold light stretched his shadow across the ground.

There was no stage.

No audience.

No music.

Yet Laurent performed every movement with the same dedication.

As though, for as long as his body could still move to the familiar rhythm within him, he possessed a small measure of freedom that belonged to no one else.

Kevin had been standing nearby the entire time.

After a while, he approached Laurent.

“This isn’t right.”

He reached out to adjust Laurent ’s shoulders.

“Relax a little.”

Laurent obeyed.

But Kevin did not immediately remove his hand.

“And your waist.”

He stepped closer.

Laurent felt that familiar sense of pressure returning.

He tried to focus on the movements again but found himself unable to keep count.

“One, two…”

He stopped.

Kevin was still standing very close.

Instinctively, Laurent looked away.

That was when he noticed the darkened window.

At first, the glass had reflected only his own blurred silhouette.

But now, there seemed to be another person.

Someone was standing behind the window, perfectly still.

Laurent held his breath.

He could not make out the person’s face.

All he could distinguish was a tall, slender outline.

The figure reminded him of the violinist he had seen in the café that afternoon.

And of the indistinct presence beside the gramophone in his hotel room.

Laurent stared at the window.

After a moment, a strange feeling came over him.

Whoever stood there had not appeared by chance.

He had been watching Laurent all along.

And he had been watching for a very long time.