Chap­ter IX begins in the heart of Lon­don, Eng­land, on March 26, 1827, where Addie LaRue finds her­self sur­round­ed by the time­less beau­ty of the Nation­al Gallery. Inside this sanc­tu­ary of art, she feels a deep con­nec­tion with six spe­cif­ic pieces, each one res­onat­ing with her in ways that mir­ror her own exis­tence. These paint­ings and sculp­tures seem to cap­ture frag­ments of her being, reflect­ing her inner world back to her in a visu­al sym­pho­ny. Despite the pro­found con­nec­tion she feels with the art, Addie remains a spec­tral fig­ure, unno­ticed and invis­i­ble, yet some­how an indeli­ble part of the very art she admires. It is a cru­el irony that while the art lives on, she, the observ­er, is lost in the shad­ows, unable to leave any last­ing impres­sion on the world around her.

As the gallery pre­pares to close, Addie lingers before a par­tic­u­lar­ly poignant por­trait, lost in con­tem­pla­tion. The qui­et hum of the space, filled with whis­pers of mar­ble and the silent weight of the paint­ings, is inter­rupt­ed by the sud­den and unwel­come appear­ance of Luc. His pres­ence, always unset­tling, pierces the peace­ful soli­tude she has come to cher­ish, and their inter­ac­tion quick­ly esca­lates into a con­fronta­tion laden with ten­sion and harsh truths. Luc, ever the tor­men­tor, mocks Addie’s per­ceived insignif­i­cance, remind­ing her of the curse that leaves her for­ev­er for­got­ten by every­one she meets. Yet, despite his cru­el words, Addie resists, refus­ing to let him have con­trol over her, even as her con­nec­tion to the art that sur­rounds her becomes a sym­bol of her defi­ance. In that moment, the art she admires seems to offer her some solace, a qui­et rebel­lion against the end­less era­sure that Luc insists upon.

The con­ver­sa­tion takes a dark turn as Luc, always unpre­dictable, trans­ports Addie into the final moments of Lud­wig van Beethoven’s life. The scene is stark, set with­in the inti­mate despair of Beethoven’s cham­ber, where the com­pos­er, aware of his approach­ing death, pleads for more time, for a chance to fin­ish his life’s work. Luc, how­ev­er, shows no mer­cy, and with his cold and cal­cu­lat­ed pre­ci­sion, he claims Beethoven’s soul, extin­guish­ing the life force of a musi­cal genius in a sin­gle, unfor­giv­ing moment. The event expos­es the raw pow­er that Luc wields—his abil­i­ty to manip­u­late the threads of time, to extin­guish bril­liance with­out remorse, and to impose his will upon even the great­est minds of his­to­ry. The spec­ta­cle is a chill­ing reminder of the vast, incom­pre­hen­si­ble forces that Luc con­trols, forces that threat­en not only Addie’s exis­tence but also the very essence of what it means to leave a last­ing mark on the world.

Addie, wit­ness­ing this moment of dark­ness and despair, is forced to con­front the full extent of Luc’s pow­er. His mon­strous form, cloaked in shad­ow and cru­el­ty, is a force beyond under­stand­ing, yet as he recedes, he reveals the famil­iar face she knows all too well. This fleet­ing moment of vul­ner­a­bil­i­ty, when his true form briefly fades, forces Addie to grap­ple with a mix­ture of fear, fas­ci­na­tion, and reluc­tant admi­ra­tion. The ten­sion between them, the dark dance of defi­ance and con­trol, remains as strong as ever, leav­ing Addie in a state of con­stant con­flict. Luc’s final words echo in her mind, taunt­ing her as she falls deep­er into the abyss of her eter­nal strug­gle. It is a poignant reminder of the price she pays for immor­tal­i­ty, for the con­stant dance with obliv­ion that she must endure, per­pet­u­al­ly inter­twined with Luc and the curse he has placed upon her. The chap­ter serves as a pow­er­ful med­i­ta­tion on the fleet­ing nature of human life, the strug­gle for recog­ni­tion, and the dark, eter­nal fight against the forces that seek to erase all traces of one’s exis­tence. Addie’s jour­ney, marked by her attempts to find mean­ing and con­nec­tion, con­tin­ues to unfold amidst the back­drop of artis­tic immor­tal­i­ty, where the past and present col­lide, and the yearn­ing for remem­brance clash­es with the stark real­i­ty of obliv­ion.