Ουπς! Αυτή η εικόνα δεν ακολουθεί τους κανόνες περιεχομένου. Για να συνεχίσεις με την δημοσίευση, παρακαλώ αφαίρεσε την ή ανέβασε διαφορετική εικόνα.
o v e r t u r e An orchestral piece at the beginning of an opera.
New Orleans, Louisiana—1923
The sky turned darker over the picturesque city streets. The colorful scenery of the French Quarter was suddenly turning monochromatic. A little earlier, it would've seemed like New Orleans would have one of the sunniest days they've ever seen. However, they were all already used to the ever-so-often changing weather.
This Sunday morning, The Velvet Times lay flat on all the front porches of New Orleans—except for that one house. The Merlaine Mansion, located in St. Charles Avenue, seemed to have no newspaper subscription. The paperboy had always thought of them as traitors. Little did he know that behind those walls, lived his very own boss—better said, the boss of his boss' boss. Behind those mahogany doors, there's was darkness that was waiting to be found.
On the second floor, Colette was sat on her wooden desk, her window looking out into St. Charles Avenue. Her eyes glanced at her worn-out journal, studying every inch of the page she had just finished writing on. Her hazel-eyes were shining passionately, as she read over the date repeatedly – August 19. There were small ink smudges that had bled through from older entries. Colette's head was tilted slightly, something she always did when reading. Her wavy dark brown hair was down to her waist, some strands falling over her face, all the way down to the aged paper. Her body, was wrapped in a long white & elegant gown. All this while a sad, soft smile crept over her lips.
In a matter of seconds, she found herself overly entertained with the marvelous art of people watching. Colette—her mother's spitting image—loved observing things and making them into whatever her mind decided. Her brain slowly drifting into fantasizing made-up stories of the people who walked past their street. Specially, wondering about a person who would exist in between the multitude, one that would understand her in the most heavenly of ways, her soulmate. Could having that even be possible?
As she looked out her window, the people over on St. Charles Avenue were the same as every other day. There was a very funny-looking apple seller on the street corner, a perfect line of uniformed children and their caretakers, everyone so familiar to her. However, in the distance she could make out a figure she had never seen before. An odd man stood out from the crowd, his posture rigid, his hair gray. He seemed as if he were walking on air—is he even moving?
After a short while observing him, she realized it would be highly improbable for him to be doing such a thing—an impossible thing. Although staring at him felt eerie, nostalgic and terrifying; for some strange unbeknownst reason. This man seemed so familiar to her, yet still unfamiliar. Colette described him that way in her diary entry that night.
As she thought about how this could be, the old man slowly turned around and moved his head up just a little. He was now looking at her straight in the eyes—he can see me. She jumped back, instinctively hiding behind her curtains. Colette mentally reprimanded herself, knowing very well how rude it was to stare. Her hazel eyes would still be glowing with curiosity, moving her curtains to the side a little to glance back into the street–when she got interrupted by an extremely familiar voice to her.
