Has anyone even seen true beauty before they entered Le Paris, viewing the trickling of the sun as it shimmered in a golden haze upon the cobblestone streets? Each stone laid, whether placed upon the roads or the finely sculpted architecture of the buildings all around. It was the visage of an artist's hand—a dream scribbled on paper brought to life. It was not constructed of marble and solid stone like most cities, wanting to claim glory held in envious eyes at the city of mystique. Instead, each brick was sculpted by dreamers. Their hearts and souls perfected the imperfections that made up the city they brought to life. Fated flaws and jagged lines held the most radiance, whether in the cradle of the day when the sun burst over the horizon. Or as the pale moon bleached the streets below. 


Revealed yet another layer of her chameleon soul. Was it any wonder why Katherine would be drawn to her time and time again? Music has flowed like honeyed wine in her veins since the time she was barely a knee. Long-lost, hazy days she spent in the forest surrounding her home when the noise all around was just too much to bear. Mother Nature was the composer, and a willow tree was her strenuous dance instructor, carving every movement the ebb and flow of her own rustling limbs. Long before, she would know the mahogany flooring in any dance studio in the finest of cities she would later perform in. La Paris, in all her flawed beauty, always felt like her home. 


Her music was not contained in just the sacred walls of Palais Garnier. It trickled between the leaves, wisped in the breeze, and danced upon the streams like fallen feathers from heaven above. With a failed baker's attempt at a perfect croissant and a steamy cup of coffee in her tiny hands, Katherine welcomed the morning in as she strolled down the flower-sweet-scented path leading to the gardens in Paris. Artists of all sorts frequented the park in the morning hours. Some with a blank canvas and sketching materials. While others carried musical instruments under their arms. Katherine brought her old, worn ballet shoes. With tiny rosettes barely hanging on by the threading from wear and tear. They were precious to her, and she refused to have them repaired because they were given to her by her very first dance instructor, Celeste. A golden-haired beauty she met when she was just a young girl. She recalls vividly watching her through a dirt-stained window in the small village she grew up in centuries ago. 


Katherine couldn't afford classes. But Celeste saw the potential and perhaps parts of herself when she caught her dancing between rehearsals. When she passed away, Katherine carried the urn with her wherever she traveled and had no intention of ever parting with it until she felt her voice calling to her to let the gardens be her resting place. A smile spread across her lips, and she could almost feel her instructor around her now, watching and critiquing every artist, but enjoying each moment of watching them blossom just as she watched her. Celeste had been more of a mother to her than even her own one from the instant that they met, and she was not traditional in her ways. She did not believe each dance step was right or wrong. But that beauty, just like the city of Le Paris was perfect when imperfect. Art is often messy, she would tell young Katherine and flick her nose. Just as love is my young protégé. The best of dreams are.