SORVEIL

Sorveil started as a way to keep hold of things that didn’t have anywhere else to go — a version of someone that only exists in memory now, a conversation that never got finished, years that quietly turned into something unrecognizable.

The songs don’t try to explain what happened. They stay with what’s left afterward: the details that don’t resolve, the habits that outlast the reason for them, the space where a person used to be.

You don’t need to know the story to recognize it. If you’ve ever gone quiet instead of saying something, this is where that goes.

Sorveil sits somewhere between an empty room and one that used to be full. Piano and strings carry most of the weight; guitar and low electronic textures come in only when the moment asks for them.

The vocals stay close, recorded like something said rather than performed — built for headphones and late hours more than a room full of people.

Nothing here is written to fill space. It’s written to leave enough of it for whatever you bring into it.

Every release finds its way here.

Sorveil is available wherever you listen.