Sweet Harmonies

Anasztaizia’s fingers traced the gold-leafed letters on the storefront window: “Zauber Schokolade.” The morning sun caught the delicate whorls of the century-old script, casting honeyed shadows on the weathered wooden floor inside. Six months had passed since she’d traded her guitar case for a chocolatier’s apron, her grandmother’s last gift becoming her unexpected sanctuary.

She was tempering dark chocolate when the bell above the door chimed. The man who entered wore a charcoal suit that probably cost more than her monthly rent; his silver-flecked hair swept back with careful precision.

“Good morning,” he said in English, his Austrian accent thick but precise. “I’m Gerson Richter. My father sent you our offer last week.”

Anasztaizia’s spatula stilled mid-stroke. “The answer is still no, Mr. Richter.”

“Please, call me Gerson.” He approached the counter, studying the rows of hand-painted bonbons. “These are beautiful. Lavender and honey?” He gestured to a violet-swirled chocolate.

“With a touch of rosemary,” she found herself saying. “My grandmother’s recipe.”

“Ah.” His eyes softened. “I remember these. My recording studio is just around the corner. Father used to bring these home when I was mixing tracks late into the night.”

Anasztaizia paused. “You’re a sound engineer?”

“Was. Now I’m a corporate raider.” His smile turned self-deprecating. “Father’s retirement gift. Like you, I’m living someone else’s dream.”

She selected a chocolate from the display—dark chocolate ganache with hints of orange and sea salt. “Try this one. It’s new. It’s my own composition, you could say.”

Gerson took a bite, and his eyes widened. “The flavors… they build like a perfect crescendo.”

“Music and chocolate aren’t so different,” Anasztaizia said, surprising herself. “Both require patience, precision and a willingness to experiment. To create something that moves people.”

He studied her for a long moment. “You’re a musician.”

“Was,” she echoed his earlier response. “Now I’m a chocolatier.”

The morning light stretched across the counter between them, illuminating the countless fingerprints on the glass display case – generations of chocolate lovers who had pressed close, pointing at their favorite treats.

“What if,” Gerson said slowly, “we invested instead of buying you out? Expanded? There’s a beautiful old recording studio in the back of this building. It could be renovated. A place where people could enjoy artisanal chocolates while listening to local musicians.”

Anasztaizia looked around the shop – at her grandmother’s recipes framed on the walls, at the worn marble countertop where she’d learned to roll truffles as a child. She thought of her guitar, carefully stored in the apartment upstairs.

“That sounds,” she said, “like a composition worth exploring.”

Gerson smiled and reached for another chocolate. “I believe this is the beginning of a beautiful collaboration, Ms…?”

“Anasztaizia,” she said, returning his smile. “Just Anasztaizia.”

Outside, Vienna continued its morning waltz, the smell of chocolate and the phantom echo of distant music drifting through the open door