The drizzle clung to Maya's hair, soaking through her coat as she stared at the man before her.
Adrian Vale.
She still wasn't sure if she had imagined him at the concert hall the night before. But no, here he was again, flesh and blood, standing on a rain-slick sidewalk as if he had stepped straight out of a dream she didn't remember having.
And his words—
"You're the first person in years who made me feel like music still exists."
Maya's throat tightened. She wanted to laugh, to tell him he was ridiculous, that she hadn't played beautifully — that she couldn't even hear what she'd played.
But she didn't laugh.
Instead, she clutched her coat tighter and forced her lips into a thin line. "You must be mistaken," she said, her voice flat. "I'm not what you think I am."
Adrian didn't flinch. Rain slid down his sharp cheekbones, but his gray eyes never wavered. "I know exactly what you are."
Her stomach twisted. "And what's that?"
"A musician," he said simply.
The word stabbed at her like a cruel reminder. Maya shook her head quickly, her wet hair sticking to her cheeks. "Not anymore."
For the first time, his expression shifted. Not pity, not sympathy — but something like defiance. As though she had just challenged him, and he had no intention of losing.
"Once a musician," Adrian said, his voice calm yet unyielding, "always a musician. Sound doesn't make the music. You do."
Maya felt the rain seep into her shoes, cold and uncomfortable. She wanted to turn and leave, to escape this stranger who seemed too intent on peeling back the layers she had worked so hard to shield.
But her feet wouldn't move.
"What do you want from me?" she whispered.
Adrian's answer came without hesitation. "I want you to play for me."
Her heart jolted. "Excuse me?"
"Not for an audience. Not for the world. Just for me." His gaze softened slightly. "I don't care if you hear it or not. I care that you feel it. Because when you played last night, I felt it too."
Maya's pulse raced, though she tried to steady her breathing. Who was this man, and why did he talk as if music were some shared language only they understood?
Her rational side screamed that this was absurd. She didn't know him. She didn't owe him anything. And yet… something inside her stirred, a faint echo of the girl she used to be.
"No," she said finally, shaking her head. "I don't perform anymore. I can't."
Adrian studied her, rain dripping steadily from his dark hair. Then, almost imperceptibly, the corner of his mouth curved. Not a smile — too sharp for that — but a hint of amusement.
"You're stubborn," he murmured.
Maya bristled. "You don't know me."
"Not yet."
The certainty in his tone unnerved her. She took a step back, ready to put distance between them, when headlights flared at the corner. A sleek black car pulled up beside them. Adrian's driver leaned out, umbrella in hand, but Adrian didn't move.
Instead, his gaze remained locked on Maya.
"I'll find you again," he said quietly, like a promise. Or a threat. She couldn't tell which.
And then he turned, sliding smoothly into the back seat of the car. The door shut with a muffled thud, and the vehicle glided away, leaving Maya standing in the rain with her heart pounding.
Maya's fingers drummed nervously against the piano keys that evening, the vibrations thrumming faintly through her skin. She hated how her thoughts kept circling back to him — that stranger with storm-gray eyes and a name she couldn't forget.
Adrian Vale.
She had searched the name once, long ago, before her accident. He was famous — a composer, a prodigy in his own right. Critics had called him a genius, a visionary. His works had filled concert halls around the world.
Until they hadn't.
She remembered the whispers: how Adrian Vale had vanished from the music scene three years ago. No new compositions, no public performances. Just silence.
Silence.
Her hand stilled on the keys. Was that what connected them? His silence and hers?
Maya pressed another note, the faintest hum vibrating against her bone. She tried to imagine what he had heard last night, why her broken playing had mattered to him. The thought unsettled her more than she wanted to admit.
Adrian sat in his study that night, the rain pattering faintly against the tall windows. He stared at the blank sheet music on his desk, the empty staves mocking him with their silence.
His fingers hovered above the pen, but no notes came. No melody. Nothing.
Until his mind replayed the image of Maya at the piano, her eyes wet with tears, her fingers trembling yet relentless as they struck the keys.
Imperfect. Raw. Real.
His hand twitched, pen scratching against the paper almost without his permission. A fragment of melody emerged — halting, incomplete, but alive. The first he had written in years.
Adrian leaned back, his breath uneven. She was the reason. He knew it instinctively.
And he wasn't about to let her disappear.
The next day, Maya tried to return to routine — or what little routine she had. Grocery shopping, cleaning, scrolling half-heartedly through job listings she didn't care about. But her concentration frayed at every corner. She felt watched, haunted by his words.
It was ridiculous. He couldn't possibly mean what he had said. She was nobody. Broken. Unfinished.
But as she left the small store with a bag of vegetables in her arms, her stomach dropped.
There he was.
Leaning casually against the sleek black car, as if he had been waiting all along.
Her pulse stuttered. She nearly dropped the bag. "Are you following me?"
Adrian straightened, his expression unreadable. "I told you I'd find you again."
Maya tightened her grip on the bag. "This isn't funny. You can't just—"
"I'm not here to play games," he cut in smoothly. "I'm here to offer you something."
She blinked. "Offer me?"
"A chance," Adrian said, his voice calm but firm. "A chance to stop running from what you are."
Her heart hammered. She wanted to snap at him, to tell him he was insane. But something in his tone, in the quiet certainty of his gaze, rooted her to the spot.
"A chance to play again," he finished.
Maya swallowed hard. "And if I say no?"
Adrian's eyes darkened, though his voice remained even. "Then I'll ask again tomorrow. And the day after that. Until you say yes."
The rain had stopped, but Maya felt as though she were standing in the middle of a storm.
She didn't know whether to run from him or toward him.