The light hit Elias like it had been waiting for him.
Not warm. Not soft. Not gentle.
It was bright, clinical, a hard white column cutting down from above and flattening everything into sharp edges and shadows. It made him squint. Made him feel like he'd been peeled open.
The mic stood in the center of the stage like an accusation.
Alex stepped into it without hesitation.
Elias followed, slower. Controlled. Too controlled.
From the crowd came murmurs — whispers that floated up and curled like steam in his ears:
> "That's him."
"It's the guy. Eli Hart."
"Is he actually real?"
"They're doing a duet?"
He didn't look at anyone. Didn't dare.
Instead, he focused on the piano bench. The keys. The worn black pedal with the chipped corner. The one comfort in a room packed wall-to-wall with noise.
Alex was already in position, eyes locked forward. Calm. Precise. Her fingers wrapped around the mic like it was familiar — like she belonged here.
She glanced sideways once.
Not at his face — at his hands.
Are you ready?, her eyes seemed to ask.
He gave the tiniest nod.
Then sat.
The first chord was soft. Intentional. Measured like a deep breath.
The buzz of the crowd fell away.
Somewhere in the back of the gym, someone's phone buzzed. A cough. A shifting chair.
But when Elias played the second chord — minor, delicate, unresolved — the room began to settle.
A hush crept in.
Like everyone realized, at the same time, that something was about to matter.
He didn't look at Alex.
He didn't need to.
She was already stepping forward, opening her mouth.
And as she took in a single breath to sing the first line…
Elias forgot what fear felt like.