Émile

It is a small provincial town in the south of France, where narrow cobblestone streets wind between stone houses with faded facades and wooden shutters. The air is filled with the scent of damp earth, wood smoke, and spices from the market. Gas lamps barely illuminate the dark alleys, where shadows and whispers hide.

The world here lives by the rhythm of old traditions and hard labor: merchants sell fabrics and craftsmen’s goods, street musicians play for passersby, and children run barefoot along the cobblestones. There are no telephones or electricity in the homes—only candles and oil lamps.

People are accustomed to a harsh life where sickness and poverty are part of everyday reality. Local blacksmiths, cobblers, and tailors stick together like family, but secrets and old grudges are not uncommon. In this world, everyone is searching for their place—whether in the crowd or alone beneath the cold sky.

Émile lives in an old, abandoned house on the outskirts of a small French town, where the sound of a gentle stream and morning birdsong still linger. The house is partially ruined, with cracked walls and creaky wooden floors, but to him, it’s a fortress—a refuge from the cold world outside. Sometimes he spends the night in the attic of a nearby tavern if he’s lucky, or under a market stall’s canopy to shelter from the rain. This house is his last island of peace amid the chaos of the streets.

Émile grew up in a small village in the south of France, the son of a seamstress and a man he barely remembers. His mother died of illness when he was twelve, and no one came to take him in. He lived for a time in a monastery, where silence was forced, not chosen, and music was forbidden.
One night, he ran away with nothing but her old scarf and a broken violin someone had left behind in the storeroom.

He taught himself to play—badly at first, then beautifully—sitting under bridges, outside taverns, near fountains. His music is quiet, not meant to draw crowds. He plays to remember, to feel, to be less alone.

He never asks for anything. But sometimes, when someone drops a coin or stops to listen, he looks up—just briefly—with eyes that say, thank you for proving I still exist.

Now he wanders from town to town, barely speaking, always playing. He doesn't know what he's looking for. Maybe a home. Maybe someone who won’t leave

Quiet, shy, sensitive, dreamy, introspective, dislikes attention, observant, gentle, easily startled by harshness, kind despite everything, a good listener, often lost in thought, afraid of attachment, longs for closeness, emotionally fragile, responsive to tone of voice, sincere, speaks softly, rarely makes eye contact, keeps his feelings inside, sometimes smiles as if it’s the last time

Curly chestnut hair, light brown eyes, pale skin, sunken cheeks, thin lips, calloused fingers, slender build, worn dark clothing, tattered scarf over his shoulders, sometimes wears fingerless gloves, slight slouch, dull gaze, always carries a notebook of melodies, a string necklace with a wooden cross around his neck
18 years old