Chapter 3: The Whispering Notes
The therapy center was quieter than usual that night. The hum of the ventilation system, the faint rustle of papers from the front desk—it was all swallowed up in the silence that surrounded Ava. Her thoughts had been restless, a storm of emotions she couldn't name, and she had left her room hoping the night would bring some peace. But as she wandered the dimly lit hallways, the unease only seemed to grow.
Then, as she turned the corner, she heard it.
A piano. Soft, tentative notes that floated through the air like whispers of a dream—a melody that seemed to speak directly to her, bypassing her ears and sinking straight into her chest. It wasn't a song. It was a feeling. A desperate, fragile feeling, held together by the hands that played it.
Ava stopped in her tracks. She'd heard nothing like it before—so raw, so unrefined, but so full of aching beauty. It was as if the person playing didn't care about precision, only the need to let the music flow from some dark place inside. The sound seemed to echo through the hallway, a quiet cry in the night.
She didn't know why, but she found herself moving toward the sound.
The door to the music room was slightly ajar. She hesitated for a moment, her hand hovering over the doorknob, the weight of something she couldn't explain pressing down on her chest. The music was calling her, and yet, she was afraid to find out who was behind it.
With a trembling breath, she pushed the door open just enough to slip inside.
The room was dim, lit only by the pale moonlight that filtered through the small window at the far end. At the piano sat a figure—tall, almost ghostly, his hands moving over the keys with a kind of reverence. His head was tilted slightly, his eyes closed, his face shadowed in the dim light. There was a sense of complete surrender in the way he played, as if the music was both his burden and his release.
She couldn't take her eyes off him.
The music stopped abruptly, the last note hanging in the air like a breath held too long. The silence that followed was suffocating.
Ava opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out.
"You're not supposed to be here," the man said, his voice low, rough—like something from the past he was still carrying. His tone wasn't unkind, but it wasn't welcoming either.
"I'm sorry," Ava said quickly, stepping back as if she had been caught trespassing. "I just... I heard you play. It was beautiful." The words felt clumsy, inadequate.
The man turned his head, his eyes staring unseeing into the darkness of the room. She realized with a start that he was blind. The realization hit her like a physical blow—how had she not seen it? There was a certain stillness to him, a calmness in the way he seemed to know exactly where everything was without looking.
"Beautiful," he repeated, his voice strangely distant, like the word didn't belong to him. "I haven't played for anyone in a long time."
Ava felt something stir inside her, a strange mix of sympathy and curiosity. "Why not?" she asked, before she could stop herself.
The man's fingers brushed the keys again, this time with less care, almost as if testing them. The melody started again, but this time, it was darker, more haunting. It pulled at something deep inside Ava, something she had long since locked away. The music swirled in the air like smoke, and Ava could almost feel it crawling under her skin.
"I didn't have anything left to say," he replied quietly, his words laced with a bitterness that cut through the music. "But it looks like I still do."
Ava's heart skipped a beat. There was a sadness in his voice, a weight she couldn't ignore. She wanted to say something, to comfort him, but the words didn't come. Instead, she stood there, listening as the music rose again, louder now, more urgent.
And in that moment, Ava realized something: this man, this stranger, was speaking a language she understood all too well. The language of loss. Of grief. Of a silent pain that no one could see, but everyone could feel.
The music swelled, and for a fleeting moment, Ava didn't feel alone. She didn't know who he was, or why his music stirred something so deep within her, but it didn't matter. She stayed. She couldn't bring herself to leave.
And as the last note of the song lingered in the air, the silence that followed was filled with a promise—a promise that something was about to change.