No price can surpass it – a silent drop of wine – and a heart that remembers

It was a rainy night in Paris. In the storage room of a venerable auction house – hidden among paintings, mahogany display cases, and forgotten rarities – Louis slumbered in a velvet-lined box. Since a small incident at the three-star restaurant L’auberge Gustav, nestled in the world-famous gourmet district of Saint-Germain-des-Prés (a trainee had accidentally mistaken him for an antique, silver-plated table utensil), he had been unintentionally sealed away and ultimately brought here to be auctioned. A humiliation as deep as it could be. A disgrace, for Louis. Since then, he had been trapped. He could do nothing. He had, quite literally, disappeared into a “drawer of oblivion” – a standstill, a vacuum without purpose, without dignity, without wine.

But Louis was not a corkscrew to accept being forgotten. He was a seeker. A guardian. And above all: a dreamer. And dreamers know – nothing happens by chance.

The evening before the scheduled auction, someone opened the door to the storage room, and the lights came on. A familiar voice echoed through the space. Léa, the young waitress from the restaurant – Louis’ trusted companion – entered, accompanied by a staff member of the auction house. Louis perked up. Would she find me? Léa had long been searching for him, and now – through a strange twist of fate – she was working here, helping with the wine auction.

“Where’s the crate with the wine, Jules?” she asked. “Here, right at the top,” the staff member mumbled, reaching for a half-open box. But it slipped from his hands and fell to the floor. Louis landed roughly, wrapped in the dust of forgotten stories. “Louis…,” Léa whispered, as if she had found a lost poem. She picked him up, gently stroked his silver spiral, his elegant handle, and her eyes sparkled. „Finally.”

At that moment, Jules lifted the lid of the crate and read aloud from the label: “Clos des Âmes Perdues, Vintage 1913.” Pausing briefly, he noticed a yellowed note inside. “It says: Vin disparu.” The lost wine! Louis’ spiral tingled with excitement as he heard it. A myth. A vanished vintage, lost to war – no other bottle had ever been found. And now it lay here. Unopened. Unheard. Silent for over a century.

“What’s going to happen to the bottle?” Jules asked. “It’s being auctioned tomorrow evening,” Léa replied. “But the director decided to open it beforehand – for inspection. They want to assess the aroma, the condition of the cork, maybe even take a microscopic sample. Just for analysis, not for drinking.” Jules frowned. “And after that?” “It will be resealed and displayed as a museum piece. Something to marvel at – not to enjoy,” Léa said quietly, listening to her own words. And with them, a thought began to stir…

Louis froze. To not drink a wine? That would be like locking a great love away in a glass case. Untouched. Unlived. Unthinkable. Louis, too, made a plan. He had to free this bottle. He sensed Léa’s thoughts. He knew she would help him. For now, she gently placed Louis back in the box. She looked at him with a soft gaze, and Louis understood – soon, they would experience something extraordinary, and she would take him with her, back to the restaurant.

On the evening of the auction, the hall was filled with hushed voices, the rustling of programs, and the clinking of champagne flutes. The “Clos des Âmes Perdues” stood on a velvet-lit pedestal, surrounded by experts with monocles, tailored suits, and flawless vocabulary.

Louis was ready. And he wasn’t alone. Léa, whose grandfather had once lived in the small Burgundy village where the wine had been made, had secretly taken Louis’ box from storage. She knew he wasn’t just any corkscrew. He was the right one for her plan. He was her friend. He gave her strength. His shine, his stance, his story – all spoke a language she understood.

Her grandfather Maurice had often told her about this wine – the lost vintage, as he called it. He had been a young man then, newly engaged, full of hope. The „Clos des Âmes Perdues“ had been meant for his wedding day, but the war came – and with it, the disappearance of the entire production. The wine was never drunk. Nor had he ever seen his fiancée, Claire Lou, again.

“If you ever find it, Léa,” he had told her, “then drink it. Drink it for us, for what never was. Don’t give it away, don’t sell it. That would be worse than anything.“

Those words echoed in her now. And as she saw the bottle on the pedestal – alone, still, trapped like an unwritten love letter – she knew: Now is the moment.

As the crowd briefly turned away – the director entered the room – Léa stepped forward. With Louis in hand. Her eyes met the bottle. And for a fleeting moment, it seemed the wine itself took a breath. “For Grandpa,” she whispered, setting Louis in place.

Louis felt the cork. Brittle, yet proud. Aged, but upright. With the grace of a dancer and the gravity of a poet, he twisted into history. And then – the softest pop. Yet the crowd noticed. All turned to look.

Léa, holding Louis in one hand and the cork in the other, was in a trance. She sensed the rising aroma – gentle, bittersweet, notes of dried violet, aged leather, faded memories. The room stood still in awe of the scene.

But Léa continued, strengthened by Louis and the feeling of reunion. In memory of her grandfather, she poured a tiny sip into a glass. Then, from the silence, an old lady stepped forward. No one had noticed her – an unassuming presence. But her eyes – clear, sorrowful, radiant – shone like the first light over Bordeaux.

“Claire Lou is my name – may I?” she asked softly. Not a single objection. Absolute silence in the hall. Léa nodded almost imperceptibly, still dazed by her actions and the name she had just heard. The woman lifted the glass. Her hand barely trembled. “For you, Maurice. For us, reunited with our favourite wine.” She drank. A single tear slid from her lash. She closed her eyes. And smiled.

That moment, that experience – Louis vibrated in Léa’s hand. He knew and felt: This was the purpose of his existence. Not every moment needs applause. Sometimes, a quiet drop of wine – and a heart that remembers – is enough.

The auction of the “Clos des Âmes Perdues” was cancelled. No price could surpass it. Even the director was moved. The auction team was allowed a taste; the bottle was emptied. But the story was fulfilled. Or nearly – because Léa wanted to hear the story of the woman who had introduced herself as Claire. What she learned, well – that’s another story.

At the end of the evening, Léa carefully placed Louis in her bag. He was with her again. Ready for the next great glass, the next great heart, the next quiet miracle. And Louis – Louis felt worthy and loved again, for the first time in a very long while.

#ShortStory #WineLove #LiteraryMagic #CorkscrewLouis #MemoryAndLove #MagicalRealism #ReadAndSavor #Storytelling #HiddenGems