Maya's footsteps echoed against the marble floor of the deserted hallway, though she didn't hear them. All she felt was the faint vibration in her bones and the quick hammering of her own pulse.
She didn't know why she was rushing. It wasn't as if she had anywhere important to be. These days, her schedule was as empty as her world of sound. But the man's words clung to her like a shadow she couldn't shake.
"You played like someone who's lost everything."
Maya bit her lip. He wasn't wrong. But he didn't know her, didn't know the accident that had ripped her life apart. He had no right to put words to her pain.
Pushing open the exit door, she stepped into the cool night air. The city stretched before her, alive with movement she could see but not hear. Cars zipped past, their lights flashing in the dark. People hurried along the sidewalks, mouths moving in conversations she couldn't catch. The world went on without her, noisy and indifferent, while she lived in silence.
She hugged her coat tighter around her body and started walking.
Adrian Vale watched the doors swing shut behind her, the echo fading into the emptiness of the hall. He remained seated for a long moment, his hands clasped tightly in front of him.
He hadn't expected tonight to bring… anything. The meeting with the hall's director had been purely business — a possible venue for his return, though the thought of performing again left a bitter taste in his mouth. Music had been his lifeblood once, but ever since that night, even looking at a piano felt like staring into a grave.
And yet…
That girl.
She had played like someone standing at the edge of a cliff, teetering between life and death, sound and silence. Each note had been flawed, imperfect. And yet it had carried more weight than any polished symphony he'd heard in years.
Adrian exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face. He didn't believe in inspiration anymore. But something about her unsettled the cage around his chest.
Who are you, Maya Cole?
The small apartment Maya called home was dimly lit when she returned. She flicked the light switch out of habit, though the buzz of electricity was lost on her ears. The silence wrapped around her like an unwelcome companion, filling the corners of the room.
She dropped her bag by the door and slipped off her shoes. The space was neat, almost too neat — the kind of order born not from discipline but from avoidance. There was nothing else to fill her days but arranging, cleaning, and rearranging again.
Her eyes drifted to the old upright piano tucked against the far wall. It wasn't as grand as the one in the concert hall, but it was hers. Scratches marred its surface, and the keys had yellowed with age, yet it had carried her through childhood, adolescence, and the beginnings of a career.
She stood in front of it now, fingers twitching.
Part of her wanted to slam the lid shut, to banish the cruel reminder of what she'd lost. Another part — the stubborn, desperate part — needed it. Needed to feel the vibrations beneath her hands, needed to remember what it was like to be whole.
Maya sat down, her palms resting on the cool keys. She pressed one softly. The vibration was faint but there. She pressed another, then another, building a slow progression.
But tonight, it wasn't enough.
Her chest ached with longing, a hollow emptiness no amount of imagined sound could fill. With a sharp exhale, she slammed both hands against the keys, the discordant vibrations buzzing angrily under her skin.
Tears blurred her vision again. She hated this weakness. Hated that even in silence, music still owned her.
Her phone buzzed on the counter. She swiped at her eyes and checked it. A message from her mother.
Eleanor: Doctor's appointment tomorrow. Don't be late this time.
Maya's lips tightened. She typed back a short reply — I won't.
It wasn't the doctor she minded. It was the constant pressure. Her mother wanted her to accept that her music career was over, to find something practical, something normal. But how did you stop being what you were born to be?
Maya set the phone down and leaned against the piano, exhausted. She closed her eyes, willing the night to swallow her.
The next morning dawned gray and wet. Rain splattered against the windows as Maya sat in the clinic waiting room, her arms crossed tightly around herself. The muted television in the corner displayed news she didn't bother to read. People chatted around her, but their voices were meaningless movements of lips.
She tried not to look at the posters on the wall — smiling people with hearing aids, cheerful slogans about new beginnings. She didn't want new beginnings. She wanted her old life back.
"Maya Cole?"
She looked up as the nurse appeared at the door, clipboard in hand. Maya nodded and followed her in.
The examination was routine — sound tests she failed, as always. Lip-reading exercises she stumbled through. Suggestions for technology she didn't want. By the end, Maya's patience was frayed.
When she stepped outside, the rain had eased to a drizzle. She pulled her coat tighter and hurried down the street, eager to escape the suffocating optimism of the clinic.
She didn't notice the sleek black car parked across the road until the door opened.
A man stepped out.
Her steps faltered.
Adrian Vale.
Maya froze, rain dripping from her hair. "You again?" she mouthed, though she knew he couldn't hear the tone of disbelief in her voice.
Adrian's lips curved slightly. "We meet again."
Her heart skipped. He wasn't just a stranger from the hall. He had followed her.
"What do you want?" she demanded, her voice sharp though unsteady.
He studied her for a long moment, then said quietly, "I want to hear you play again."
Maya blinked. Of all the things she had expected, that was not one of them.
"Why?" she whispered.
Adrian's gaze didn't waver. "Because you're the first person in years who made me feel like music still exists."
The rain dripped steadily around them, but Maya barely noticed. Her stomach twisted, torn between anger, confusion, and a strange flicker of something she hadn't felt in a long time — hope.