🪔. ❪ 𝓛іᑲᥱr𝗍ᥱ. 𝐌𝐋𝐁 𝐗 𝐆𝐍! 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑. ❫⠀
╰────╮ཐིཋྀ. 𝕴𝐍 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐂𝐇; [name], a
renowned violinist, seeks for
freedom after years of no control.
▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃
❝ your first name is...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
THE CITY OF LIGHTS, THE CITY OF LOVE, THE GASTRONOMIC CAPITAL─ Paris held all those titles, its enthralling beauty securing its spot among the chronicles of the world's most storied cities. rolling verdant parks with the expanse of cobbled streets to the bustling sidewalks comprised various cafes and bakeries. the tantalising fragrance of fresh pastries floated through the air, mingling with the aroma of coffee beans to create a redolence that only Paris could.
but even with all those picturesque factors, Paris was just another stage for you. quick, sharp staccato notes billowed through the air, dancing throughout the stage whilst wrapping the audience in a silent daze. your precision was admirable, vibratos delicately rippling with each bow and long-drawn-out legatos flowing seamlessly with everything.
the flicks of your bow had become the lifeline of some, while others saw it as another striking performance. but you didn't essentially feel anything. the composition was beautiful, a thousand dreams captured in few notes. yet you had mastered this piece till every melodious sound blurred in your perception, sounding like another daunting symphony.
once done, everyone gave you a standing ovation, shooting your already gloated ego through the roof. no matter where you are, adulation will always shower you, making Paris no different from any other stage you've performed on.
─────────────────────
"you were amazing out there," complimented your stylist, words coated in velvety ink, another addition to the heap of praise that had piled on top of you. flamboyant textiles were strewn everywhere along with unwinding spools of thread that formed a colourful patchwork, the vibrancy marred by scattered pins, placed anywhere but on the pincushion. a lone sketchbook was sprawled out on the floor, revealing messy doodles of intricate designs that were difficult to decipher, even for the trained eye.
"thank you, mrs. silanka," though your gratitude was there, it felt more of a liability to show your appreciation. "no need, my daughter is a big fan," the elderly woman said once again, causing you to grumble and tune out her rambling.
