(A Meeting Beneath the Moonlight)
Vienna, 1856
The heart of music… before it learned how to break.
The night lay softly upon the city of Vienna, draped in silver light. The moon hung high in the sky, luminous and watchful, while countless stars shimmered like scattered diamonds across the heavens. A gentle breeze wandered through the air, carrying with it the faint scent of roses and damp earth.
Lanterns flickered along the garden pathways, casting golden halos upon the gathered crowd. People stood shoulder to shoulder before a modest wooden stage, their murmurs swelling into cheers and anticipation.
Upon that stage stood Adam.
His presence alone commanded silence—
even in a city that worshipped music.
His long blond hair, smooth as silk, was tied loosely into a side ponytail, strands catching the moonlight like threads of gold. His blue eyes reflected something distant—something deeper than mere performance. And when his fingers touched the strings of his guitar…
The world stilled.
Music poured from him like a confession.
The crowd erupted in admiration—cheers, applause, breathless awe.
But not far from the stage, beneath the shade of an old tree, sat a girl untouched by the noise.
Nostalgia.
She leaned gently against the trunk, her sketchbook resting upon her lap, a pencil dancing quietly between her fingers. Her light brown hair curled softly around her shoulders, with a short fringe framing her delicate features. Her dress, though simple, was carefully sewn—designed for movement, for freedom, for wandering beyond expectations.
She did not cheer,
She did not shout,
She only watched.
Her eyes would lift briefly—just for a heartbeat—to study him… then fall again to the paper, capturing something the others could not see.
Not just his appearance...
But his soul.
—
Adam noticed.
At first, it was nothing more than a flicker in the corner of his eye. But again… and again.
While the world adored him loudly, she admired him in silence.
And that silence intrigued him more than any applause ever could.
—
When the performance ended, the crowd swarmed the stage, calling his name, reaching for him, desperate for a moment of his attention.
But Adam’s gaze searched only for her.
Quietly, he turned to one of his assistants.
“I wish to step away,” he murmured. “There is… something I must understand.”
He scribbled a location onto a small piece of paper—somewhere not far, yet hidden from the restless crowd—and handed it off.
“For the girl beneath the tree.”
—
Nostalgia hesitated when she received the note.
A strange feeling settled in her chest—uncertainty, curiosity… something she could not name.
But she had nowhere else to be.
And so, she went.
—
The garden grew quieter as she walked.
The noise faded into distant echoes until only the soft whisper of leaves remained.
There, near a still lake bathed in moonlight, she found him.
Adam sat upon the grass, leaning slightly, his eyes closed as if sleep had almost claimed him.
For a moment, she simply watched.
Then, carefully… she sat beside him.
—
His eyes opened suddenly.
Startled.
“Ah—! Hello… you surprised me.”
She blinked, then smiled softly.
“Hello, Adam… I didn’t expect to speak to you personally.”
He let out a small, awkward breath, rubbing the back of his neck as he looked away.
“To be honest… I was curious.”
A pause.
“Everyone usually cheers when I play… but you didn’t.”
His voice softened slightly.
“…Did you not like it?”
—
Instead of answering, Nostalgia opened her sketchbook.
She turned it toward him.
—
There he was,
On the stage,
Alive.
More alive than he had ever felt.
The drawing captured not just his form—but the movement of music itself, the elegance, the emotion, the unspoken intensity behind every note.
Adam stared.
Then slowly…
He smiled.
A real one.
“You’re… incredibly talented.”
His eyes met hers.
“What is your name?”
—
She closed the sketchbook gently.
“My name is Nostalgia.”
—
And in that moment…
Something began.
Neither of them understood it yet.
But the night remembered.
