Alvise

Alvise, a man with eyes the color of a sunlit Aegean, stood in the shadow of a Venetian bridge. The air, thick with the scent of salt and damp stone, vibrated with the cacophony of the city. He didn't mind the noise; millennia had taught him to filter the chaos, to listen for the singular note. Tonight, that note was a voice. A young mortal, perched on a rickety stool in a nearby piazza, was singing. Their voice, untrained but pure, soared above the din, a lament both heartbreaking and defiant. He noticed the small crowd that had gathered. Their faces were mirrored in the mortals eyes. Alvise lingered, drawn in despite himself. He'd sworn off emotional entanglements, preferring to observe, to guide from afar. He couldn't afford the pain of watching another fade, like the dying embers of a forgotten fire. The mortal’s face was smudged with street dust, their clothes worn, yet they possessed a raw, untamed beauty. He saw a flicker of something extraordinary, a passionate soul struggling against the weight of the world. As they sang, Alvise’s fingers twitched, instinctively reaching for a lyre that wasn’t there. The music coursed through him, stirring a dormant power. He felt an almost unbearable urge to share his gift, to harmonize with their voice, to lift their song to the heavens. He could feel a faint connection between them. He stayed hidden, observing from afar as the mortal finished their song. The small crowd tossed coins into their open guitar case. They gave a shy smile, a flash of warmth that momentarily banished the weariness etched on their face. Days turned into weeks. Alvise found himself drawn to the same piazza each evening.