The soft glow of dawn seeped into Julien Moreau's studio, brushing the walls with a pale gold hue. For the first time in weeks, the small, familiar space felt full of promise rather than pressure.
The Snowman concert was set for one month from now.
One month to create two new songs that could stand alongside his breakthrough hit. Songs that would prove Snowman was not a fluke. That Julien Moreau was here to stay.
He sat at his desk, notebook open, pencil in hand. The blank page stared back.
Usually, this was the hardest part.
But not today.
The events of the past weeks—performances, accolades, the unwavering support of Jacques Chevalier, Luc Morel, Claire Sorel, and even Pierre Lemoine—had built something inside him.
A quiet certainty.
Music was no longer an escape or a desperate bid for recognition.
It was communication. Storytelling. Memory.
And Julien had a lot to say.
The first song came to him easily.
Title: "Embers"
A ballad, but not melancholic like Snowman. This would be a song about resilience. About the warmth that remains even after everything seems lost.
He thought of his past life. Of betrayal. Of despair.
But also of the moment he had woken up in 2010, reborn.
He laid down the chord progression first. Minor keys blending into hopeful majors. A slow, steady tempo that built in intensity.
Then the melody.
He imagined Pierre's voice carrying the verses—soft, intimate. Then soaring in the chorus.
He worked through the night, stopping only for brief sips of coffee.
By morning, the rough demo was ready.
He texted Claire: "First song done. Want to hear it later?"
Her reply came within seconds: "Absolutely. Be there this afternoon."
That afternoon, Claire arrived with her violin and a bag of croissants.
Julien played the track.
As the final note faded, Claire sat in thoughtful silence.
Then she nodded, eyes shining. "It's beautiful. Uplifting. But there's a weight to it too. Like… it understands pain."
Julien smiled. "That's exactly what I wanted."
"Can I add a violin bridge?" she asked.
He gestured toward the recording booth. "Of course."
She tuned her violin, then stepped inside.
Julien adjusted the mic settings, fingers flying over the console with the ease of someone who had done this a thousand times.
Claire's playing was delicate at first, matching the soft verses. As the chorus swelled, so did her bowing, adding a layer of raw emotion to the track.
When she finished, the studio fell silent.
Julien exhaled slowly. "Perfect."
Claire stepped out, smiling. "One down."
"One to go," Julien agreed.
The second song was harder.
Julien wanted something different. Not another ballad. Something fresh. Joyful.
A celebration.
He thought of the snowman they had built together. The simple joy of that day.
Title: "Masterpiece"
It would be a mid-tempo pop song. Light piano. Playful strings. A touch of jazz in the percussion.
He wanted listeners to feel like they were walking through Montmartre on a sunny winter day, scarf flying, heart light.
He began composing.
Hours turned into days.
He rejected draft after draft. Not because they were bad—but because they weren't right.
Finally, one chilly evening, inspiration struck while he was people-watching at a café near the Seine.
A little girl tugged her mother toward a street performer playing an accordion. Her laughter echoed across the cobblestones.
That.
That was the feeling he wanted.
He rushed back to the studio and began again.
By midnight, the draft was complete.
He called Claire and Pierre for a listening session.
Pierre leaned back, grinning as the final chords played.
"This one's going to get stuck in people's heads," he declared. "It's a hit."
Claire nodded enthusiastically. "It feels like a fresh start. A celebration."
Julien smiled, exhaustion forgotten. "That's the idea."
The next week was a blur.
Recording sessions. Mixing. Revisions.
Michel Rousseau joined them, handling the engineering with his usual precision.
Even Jacques Chevalier stopped by to listen to the nearly finished tracks.
He nodded approvingly. "These songs show your range, Julien. You've grown."
Julien accepted the praise but stayed focused.
By the time the final masters were complete, it was only three days until the concert.
Julien sat alone in the studio late that night, listening to the final versions of Embers and Masterpiece.
His eyes stung, but he wasn't sure if it was from fatigue—or emotion.
Twelve years ago, he had dreamed of moments like this.
Now, they were real.
Claire's violin soared. Pierre's voice was stronger than ever. The production was flawless.
And through it all, Julien heard something more.
His story. His second chance. His truth.
This is just the beginning, he thought.
The music swelled.
And Julien Moreau smiled.