The restaurant clings to the rooftop like a secret whispered between heaven and earth. Private. Secluded. Made for lovers who want the stars to witness what words cannot say.
The city sprawls far below—a carpet of amber and gold—its distant hum softened by height, reduced to something almost gentle.
Above, the sky stretches wide and endless, a dark canvas scattered with stars like diamonds torn from some celestial treasure. Ancient. Indifferent. Watching over this single, fragile moment with cold, eternal light.
Only one table is set.
It stands at the center of the rooftop, draped in white linen that glows softly in the candlelight. Red roses spill from a crystal vase, their petals dark as wine, their fragrance heavy in the air.
Two glasses catch the flickering flames—one of crystal, one of cut glass—each holding something different. The silverware gleams. The napkins are folded into precise shapes.
