Chapter 156: A piano in the dark
The villa was silent.
Not the silence of absence, but the kind that wrapped around you—slow, warm, and somber. It was the kind of silence that only occurred after the close of a day, after the dishes had been washed and dried and the rain quit running down the panes in sheets. The kind of silence that insisted on stillness, if you were willing to listen.
I was curled up on the couch, wrapped in one of Caspian's worn-out shirts, an open book on my lap but untouched for over thirty minutes. The words weren't holding me. Something was.
A sound. Echoing through the hallow walls that it almost made them vibrate.
Soft. Subtle.
It crept down the hallway, curling under the doorway and at my ankles like a memory.
Music.
One note. Then another.
Not a tune yet—just keys attempted, like secrets lightly striking a door that had remained shut for decades.
I rose from the couch, and walked barefoot down the hall. The boards creaked under my feet, but I did not care. The sound carried me forward, familiar and unfamiliar all at once, like the first words of a dream you could not recall waking up to.
The guest room door was only open. A golden slice of light spilled onto the floorboards. I pushed it open carefully.
Caspian sat at the piano.
He didn't see me at first. His back was to the door, sleeves rolled up, hair a little messy like he'd rubbed his hands through it in frustration or thought. His fingers were suspended, touching, hesitating—like he was trying to remember what breathing through your fingers felt like.
I remained standing in the doorway and watched.
It was rude to speak, like breaking the hush of a cathedral. But eventually, the devotion of the moment unfolded to words.
"You play," I breathed.
His shoulders stiffened. Slowly, he turned to me and provided a smile. Listless, like the kind you save for things that matter too much.
"I used to."
"Why is it that I have never seen you?"
"I quit a long time ago."
I stepped inside, the squeaky old wood floor chilly beneath my feet. Slightly cedar and polish, the smell was as if the past had been dusted carefully but never handled.
"Why now?" I asked.
He looked down at the keys, his fingers outlining the black and white as if they were fragile. "Tonight seemed… quiet enough to remember."
I didn't understand. But I understood enough.
"May I?" I pointed towards the bench.
He nodded, scooting to make space for me. I sat beside him. Our legs brushed, the contact instant—warm, earthy. Electric, in that silent, steady way that informed us we didn't need sparks anymore to feel the flame.
"I do not know how to play," I breathed.
"You do not have to."
He started over. And this time, the notes filtered through. Simple, painful, deliberate. They wrapped themselves about the room walls, bleeding into the shadows, settling in the crevices at the back of my lungs.
"What is it?" I barely mouthed.
He paused, his fingers floating above the keys. "Something I wrote. A long time ago."
"For whom?"
His gaze locked with mine. And did not shift.
No one. Or maybe. the me I once dreamed of."
My throat tightened. I said nothing. There was already tension in the air, so much unspoken.
The music swelled once more—low and sad and beautiful. The sort of music that crept into you and gently pulled until you did not know where the hurt lay.
I closed my eyes and leaned in to it. I touched the keys more than I listened to them. I felt him beside me—solid, soft. I felt his steady breathing, close and quiet.
When the last note had dissipated, the silence that had followed was not the same. Not empty. Full.
I turned to him. He was already watching me.
His eyes weren't soft—they were hard. Intense. Focused. But not the kind of focus that was overwhelming. It anchored me. It told me I was here, and so was he, and neither of us were fleeing anymore.
"When did you ever feel this still?" he asked.
I didn't even need to think.
"Never."
He grasped my hand, his palm against my thigh warm. His thumb caressed the inside of my wrist, exactly where it always did—exactly where my pulse was located.
"I prefer this," I said. "No fuss. No headlines. No Nathaniel. Just… us."
His jaw relaxed by a fraction. Not rage, but recognition.
"You still feel him?" he asked.
"Not him. Only the echo," I said. "It's faint, but it's there. Occasionally."
He moved entirely toward me, his body aligned, deliberate. "Then let me drown it out for you."
He kissed me.
Not desperately. Not to make a point.
It was quiet.
A kiss akin to music—measured, purposeful, reverent. A kiss that was heavy, as if he were offering me something unspoken.
I leaned into it. Into him.
His hand fell to my cheek, fingers gentle under my jaw, thumb against the softness of my skin as if learning me again from scratch.
Red wine on my lips. Warm breath. The silence of the house. The muted vibration of the piano through walls.
Our foreheads stayed pressed together when we finally parted.
"We are not the same people we were when we started," I whispered.
"No," he breathed. "We're better."
"I'm still scared."
"So am I."
"But I want to attempt it anyway."
He looked at me—blazing, steady, unyielding. "Then don't leave."
"I wasn't leaving, what makes you think that?."
There was a silence. But it wasn't empty.
It was home.
Finally, I leaned against his side. His arm wrapped around me, automatic and instinctive. My head rested in the hollow between his shoulder and neck, safest spot I'd ever known.
He whispered against my hair and kissed me.
And we were there.
No ghosts. No future. No past.
Just breath.
Just now.
And it was enough.