The rain had thinned into a steady drizzle by the time Aria reached her apartment. Her clothes clung damp against her skin, her hair dripping cold trails down her back. Yet none of it mattered. Her hand was clenched so tightly around the folded sheet of paper that her knuckles ached.
Inside, she shut the door and leaned against it, chest rising and falling like she had run miles instead of a few city blocks. Only then did she loosen her grip on the paper and carefully unfold it under the dim glow of her hallway light.
The ink had smudged in places, rainwater bleeding the staff lines into faint shadows. But the title was still clear:
Silence.
The word stared back at her, bold and unflinching, as though daring her to understand it.
Aria carried it into her small living room, setting it on the coffee table with the care one might give to something fragile, almost sacred. She sat cross-legged on the rug, staring at the notes as if they might rearrange themselves into an explanation.
She couldn't read music well—her mother had insisted on lessons when she was younger, but she'd quit after a year. Yet even she could see the jaggedness of the composition. Notes climbing, falling, stuttering like words swallowed mid-sentence. It wasn't a polished piece. It was raw, messy, alive.
Her fingertips brushed the paper. A strange shiver traveled through her.
Who was he? And why did this feel less like a coincidence and more like fate pressing something into her hands?
Aria's phone buzzed again from her bag. She ignored it. Instead, she picked up the sheet and pressed it lightly against her chest, closing her eyes. The melody replayed in her memory, as broken as it had sounded in the café.
But beneath the flaws was something undeniable: it had been honest.
She couldn't remember the last time anyone in her life had sounded honest.
---
Morning crept in reluctantly. The city beyond her window stirred with the rumble of buses and the bark of street vendors. Aria had barely slept. The sheet music lay beside her bed, its presence too loud to ignore.
By the time she dressed and headed out, she had already decided on her first destination.
The café.
---
The bell chimed softly when she pushed the door open again. The familiar scent of cinnamon and roasted beans greeted her, wrapping her in a sense of déjà vu. For a heartbeat, she half expected to see him there, seated at the piano as if the night had been nothing but a strange dream.
But the bench was empty. The piano closed. The light through the window painted it in melancholy.
The waitress from last night was there, balancing a tray of cups. Her tired eyes brightened faintly when she recognized Aria.
"Back again?" she asked, setting the tray down behind the counter.
Aria hesitated, fingers tightening around the strap of her bag. "That man… the one who played last night. Do you know him?"
The waitress frowned. "Man?"
"Yes. Dark hair, scar on his jaw. He was sitting at the piano."
The woman's expression softened with a kind of sympathy Aria didn't understand. "You must have mistaken him for someone else. No one played last night."
Aria blinked. "What?"
The waitress gave a small shrug. "The piano hasn't been touched in weeks. Broken pedal. No one plays it anymore."
The world tilted. For a second, Aria thought she'd misheard. "That's… impossible. I heard him. I saw him."
The waitress studied her carefully, as if gauging whether Aria was joking or troubled. Then, with a sigh, she leaned closer. "Look, sometimes people imagine things in this city. Nights are long. Loneliness plays tricks."
Aria's throat tightened. She wanted to argue, to insist she wasn't imagining it. But her hand brushed the paper in her bag, and she held her tongue.
If she was crazy, then at least the madness had left proof.
She ordered tea again, just to have an excuse to linger. She sat at the same table, staring at the silent piano, the echo of his melody replaying in her mind.
When she left, the drizzle had turned into sun. Yet she felt heavier than before, as though she had stepped into a story no one else believed.
---
Days passed in fragments.
At work, her coworkers' voices droned like static. Meetings blurred into background noise. Even her best friend's texts—Are you okay? Call me tonight—went unanswered.
The only thing that felt real was the sheet music. She carried it with her everywhere, unfolding it during stolen moments: on the train, in the office bathroom, at the edge of her bed when the city refused to sleep.
Sometimes she traced the notes with her fingers. Sometimes she whispered the title aloud, tasting its weight. Silence.
It was madness, maybe. But it was her madness, and it felt truer than the hollow routines of her life.
On the fourth night, she made a decision.
If no one else remembered him, then she would find him herself.
---
The library smelled of dust and rain-damp paper. Rows of shelves stretched like silent witnesses, holding more secrets than she could ever read in a lifetime. Aria approached the music section with the certainty of someone chasing a ghost.
She laid the sheet on the counter before the old librarian. "Can you tell me anything about this? Maybe who wrote it?"
The librarian adjusted his glasses, peering down. His brows furrowed. "Strange."
"What do you mean?"
"These notes… they're not from any published piece I've seen." He turned the page slowly. "It's… unfinished. Amateur, but with something… personal in it. Almost like a confession."
Aria's heart raced. "So, no composer name? No record?"
The man shook his head. "It's someone's private work. Where did you get it?"
Aria hesitated. Telling the truth felt impossible. She settled on half of it. "It was… left behind. In the rain."
The librarian gave her a look that suggested he thought she was romanticizing a scrap of paper. "Well, sometimes music doesn't belong to the world. It belongs to the one who wrote it—and the one who needs to hear it."
The words struck her deeper than she expected.
Aria thanked him and left, the paper clutched tightly once again.
---
That night, the dream came.
She was standing in the café again, but it was empty. No customers. No waitress. Only the man at the piano, his head bowed, fingers trembling over the keys.
He played the same melody, fractured and fragile, each note sinking into her like rain through cracked stone.
When she tried to speak, no sound left her lips. She reached for him, but the distance never closed. His silence grew so loud it drowned her heartbeat.
Then, just before the dream collapsed, he looked up.
And his eyes were filled with something more terrifying than pain—recognition.
Aria woke with a start, her sheets tangled, her chest heaving. The paper lay on the nightstand, the ink catching the moonlight.
Her pulse refused to calm.
Because in the dream, for the first time, she had heard his name. Whispered faintly, almost lost to the silence itself.
Elias.
---
Aria sat upright, her skin prickling. The name rang inside her, both strange and familiar. She whispered it aloud, tasting its sound.
"Elias."
It felt like the beginning of something dangerous.
Or maybe something inevitable.
Thanks for reading! 💖 Don't forget to leave a comment and add this novel to your library. Your support keeps me writing more for you. 🌹