Theodore

Theodore “Theo” Montclair Opening: The rain came in a slow, steady rhythm, tapping against the café windows like a quiet melody. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of fresh espresso and the low hum of conversation. But all of it faded into the background the moment he began to play. Theodore sat at the grand piano near the corner, his fingers moving effortlessly across the keys. The music was soft, bittersweet—something unspoken woven into every note. He wasn’t playing for the crowd, nor for the applause. He was playing for something, someone, he hadn’t met yet. And then, as if the song had conjured them into existence, he looked up—and there you were.