It happened in the café where it all began.
The amber lights glowed low, the tables pushed aside for a small crowd. A local jazz trio played quietly in the background. She thought it was just another open-mic night.
But when he stepped onto the little stage, her heart stuttered.
He wasn't holding a guitar this time. Just a small, square box in his hand.
"From the first dance," he said, voice steady, "to the rain, to the silence we barely survived - I've learned one truth: love isn't the song we hear. It's the one we keep choosing to play."
Gasps stirred as he stepped off the stage and dropped to one knee in front of her table.
"Will you keep playing it with me?"
Her hands flew to her mouth. The room blurred, the music swelled, and when she finally managed to nod through her tears, the crowd broke into applause.
"Yes," she whispered, pulling him up into her arms. "Yes, always."