Chateau de la Lune

Château de la Lune

Sometimes a painting starts as color, and sometimes it starts as a story you can’t quite get out of your chest.This one began with both.

I kept seeing them—two figures meeting again under the same moonlight, years after the world they knew had collapsed. The balcony. The canal. The air thick with what’s unsaid.And I thought: What if some loves never die? What if they just go underground until it’s safe to breathe again?

That question became Château de la Lune—and somewhere between the brushstrokes, their story began to tell itself.

Short Story: Château de la Lune

By Stephen “Esteban” Harrelson

They met again on the terrace of a quiet riverside café—one of those places that still remembers the Cold War, even if no one else does.

The waiter didn’t remember them.That was the first mercy of the night.

He lit their candle, poured the wine, and left without a word. The bottle sat between them like an old code — Château de la Lune. He had chosen it on purpose. Of course he had.

Years ago, during the Cold War, it was the password they used in intercepted messages. It meant meet me where the river bends, or sometimes everything’s falling apart — come anyway.

Now the world had changed. The walls they once hid behind had crumbled. But the ache hadn’t.

She arrived late, in a magenta dress that dared the night to look away. Her hair was darker than he remembered. Or maybe the city was lighter. It didn’t matter. She still moved like someone who could vanish if you blinked too long.

“You kept the code,” she said, glancing at the bottle.

He smiled. “Some things you don’t update.”

They drank slowly. No toasts. No laughter. Just two ghosts trying to remember how to live in the same sentence again.

The moon leaned low over the canal, spilling its reflection between them. Somewhere down the street, a saxophone played a song that hadn’t been written yet.

“I thought you were gone,” she said finally.

“I was.”

The silence that followed was the same kind that used to save them — the kind that kept secrets alive.

When they stood to dance, it wasn’t out of joy. It was survival. The world had taken everything else from them; rhythm was the only language left they both still spoke.

Her heel brushed the cobblestone. His hand steadied her.And for one impossible moment — under the same moon that had once hidden their sins — they remembered what it felt like to be free.

The candle burned out. The waiter returned.The table was empty, save for two glasses, a bottle half gone, and a small folded napkin that read only:— Château de la Lune.