Prologue
Beneath the Chandelier Sky
New York City, December 1958
The ballroom had changed.
The walls, once lined with gold-threaded silk, now wore the dull fatigue of time. The grand chandelier — still hanging, still proud — flickered weakly against the haze of dust in the air, its brilliance faded to memory. There were no dancers, no music, only the hush of forgotten echoes.
She stood alone beneath it.
Evelyn Hart, now a name only spoken in soft reminiscence by aging doormen and former socialites, traced her gloved fingers across the piano's ivory keys without pressing down. She hadn't played in years. Not since that night. Not since him.
There had been letters — ones she kept folded in the back of her dresser drawer, unread but never thrown away. And there had been the telegram. The one she opened with trembling hands by the window, as snow began to fall, just like it was falling now.
She looked up at the chandelier, remembering how it once shone over them as they danced alone, long after the guests had gone. How he had whispered something only the crystal light seemed to hear.
The snow outside thickened, muffling the city into silence. Evelyn sat at the piano, placed her hands upon the keys, and began to play the piece he once said reminded him of home. A soft, sorrowful waltz that no one else remembered.
She played until the last note trembled into nothing. Then she rose, left the ballroom without a sound, and did not look back.
Behind her, the chandelier flickered once more—
—and went dark.