The next morning arrived with pale light spilling through the café windows, catching the dust motes in a quiet, golden dance. The rain had finally lifted, leaving the air crisp and clean.

Elise arrived early again, her steps light but her thoughts restless. She'd tucked Daniel's folded napkin — "Thank you for today's song" — safely into her notebook, but it burned in her mind all morning.

Madame Colette noticed before Elise even spoke.
"You're humming," she said, setting down a tray of freshly polished cups. "You never hum before your first coffee. Something's changed."

Elise bit back a smile. "It's nothing."

"Rien du tout?" Colette's eyes sparkled. "My dear, when a woman says 'nothing,' it's always something worth a story."

Elise hesitated, fingers twisting her apron's edge. "It's just... one of the regulars left me a note."

Colette lifted a brow, already intrigued. "A note, you say? What kind of note?"

"A kind one," Elise said softly, lowering her gaze. "He thanked me for playing. Said the music spoke for him."

"Ah," Colette sighed with a knowing grin. "Words wrapped in melody — the beginning of all great romances."

Elise flushed, half laughing. "You make it sound far grander than it is. He's quiet, reserved. I don't think he meant anything by it."

"Men who mean nothing rarely take the time to write something," Colette replied, pouring two cups of coffee. "Drink. You'll need courage — romance has a habit of sneaking up when you least expect it."

Elise accepted the cup, her smile lingering like a secret between sips.

Across the street, in a narrow photography studio that smelled of chemicals and old paper, Daniel Moreau sat opposite his friend Henri Dumas.

Henri leaned against the counter, camera slung around his neck, studying Daniel with a lopsided grin. "You've been staring at that napkin for ten minutes. Either it owes you money or you've fallen in love with it."

Daniel sighed, folding it once more. "It's not the napkin. It's the pianist at the café."

Henri's grin widened. "Ah! The lovely one with the soft eyes. I've seen her — she's like a song you want to listen to twice."

Daniel chuckled under his breath. "She's... remarkable. I don't even know her properly, yet she's in every page I write lately."

"Then tell her," Henri said simply, snapping a photograph of his friend before Daniel could protest. The flash startled him.

"Tell her?" Daniel repeated, blinking. "You make it sound simple."

"It is simple," Henri said, winding the film with a click. "Life's too short to drink cold coffee and keep secrets."

Daniel leaned back in his chair, thoughtful. "She deserves more than a writer with half a story."

"Then finish the story," Henri said. "Start with her."

Later that afternoon, the café hummed again with chatter and the faint clatter of cups. The golden light slanted through the windows, the piano gleaming softly in the glow.

When Daniel walked in, Elise was already at the keys, playing a lilting waltz that seemed to hesitate whenever he glanced her way. He ordered his usual — one coffee, no sugar — and tried to look anywhere but her direction.

Madame Colette, of course, noticed everything.

She leaned toward him as she set down his cup. "You should tell her that melody suits her smile."

Daniel blinked. "Pardon?"

Colette smiled slyly. "The pianist. She's wondering if you liked today's song."

Daniel froze, then smiled — small, genuine, hopeful. "Tell her I did," he said quietly, "and that she shouldn't change a single note."

Colette nodded with the satisfaction of a matchmaker who had just struck the perfect spark.

That evening, as the café emptied, Elise found a folded paper beneath her piano stool.
It wasn't a napkin this time — it was a page from a notebook, written in clean, careful script.

    "Your music has a way of finding what I cannot say aloud.
If you ever grow tired of playing for strangers,
I'd be honored to listen — not as a customer, but as a friend.
— Daniel M."

Elise's heart fluttered, quiet but certain.

Outside, dusk gathered over the city — soft, golden, and full of promise.