The silence that followed Elias Thorne's departure was different. It wasn't the dead, suffocating emptiness of the past six months. It was an expectant silence, like a held breath. The upright piano, now clean and tuned, seemed to hum with potential energy in the corner of the living room.
Elara stared at it from the kitchen doorway. The sheet music—Leo's hasty, pencil-smudged scrawl—was still resting on the music desk.
*For El. When she finds the words.*
She walked over, her footsteps slow and deliberate on the creaky floorboards. She sat on the wooden bench. It groaned under her weight, but the sound was almost comforting now.
She raised her hands. Her fingers hovered over the pristine keys. Taking a shallow breath, she found Middle C and pressed it down.
*Ping.*
The note was clear, bright, and perfectly in tune. The sound hung in the air, pure and unblemished, cutting through the heavy atmosphere of the cottage.
She positioned her fingers to form the first chord written on Leo's sheet music. Her hands trembled so much she had to rest them on her knees for a moment to steady herself. Then, she reached out again and pressed down on the keys.
The harmony swelled. It was rich, resonant, and heartbreakingly familiar. It was the exact, slightly jazz-tinged voicing Leo always used—a warm, melancholic sound that felt like an embrace.
Tears instantly hot and fast welled in Elara's eyes, blurring the notes on the page. She played the next chord. Then the next. The melody was slow, an aching progression that felt like a question waiting for an answer.
She reached the end of the fragment. Four bars. That was all he had written before the accident.
She played it again. And again. Her muscle memory, though clumsy and out of practice, slowly began to awaken. The cottage filled with the ghostly presence of Leo's music.
She opened her mouth. She wanted to hum the melody. She needed to feel the vibration in her chest, to merge her voice with his music like they always had. She took a deep breath, feeling the air fill her lungs, pushing it up toward her vocal cords.
She closed her eyes and visualized the note.
A raspy, broken breath escaped her lips. A harsh whisper of air. Nothing more.
The physical block was still there, an invisible wall built from trauma and grief. Her voice was trapped behind it.
Frustration, hot and sudden, flared in her chest. She slammed her hands down on the keys in a loud, discordant crash. The ugly sound echoed painfully in the small room.
"Why?" she mouthed, the word tearing painfully at her dry throat, producing no sound. She stared at the sheet music, a fresh wave of despair washing over her. She had his music, but she had lost her instrument.
She buried her face in her hands, resting her elbows on the edge of the piano. Beneath the wood, the strings vibrated from her angry crash, slowly, agonizingly fading back into the expectant silence.
The ice was cracking, but she was still frozen inside.