The evening turns black, joining the darkness, the stars and the moon slowly. There she is, the cold wind waking her up every time her eyes close. Sitting on this cliff, her notebook on her knees, she lets herself be lulled by the melody that she hums between her lips. Following the notes one by one, her pencil gently tapping the rhythm on the binding, she writes a new symphony. She hears like a violin sound in the distance, and instinctively finds inspiration. D, F, B, C. Nothing matters more now, she hums this incessant melody, accompanying in her voice the sea and the imaginary violin. And this presence nearby, the one who plays this violin, is him. He is her muse, her instrument to compose. His name is the supreme note, his face, the eternal sound, his smile the orchestra of her dreams. When she wants to create, she just has to think. Think of his kisses which are like the taste of a peach in the middle of winter, frozen and sweet at the same time. Think of his caresses which are like the feather of a dove, soft and light. Thinking, thinking, thinking... Thinking to create, compose, interpret, to play... The sound of his voice when he tells her that he loves her. The illumination in his eyes when he laughs, the one when he smiles. The colour of his cheeks when he blushes. She forgets everything when his fingers land on his violin to play. When he moves the bow to the rhythm of her melody, her own, the one she wrote just for him. This unique music for this unique talent as a violinist. So, imagining that he is playing right now at her side, she whistles, hums and marks each note with the melody she is composing, the symphony that will one day be over.