The alarm pierced through the quiet of Aria's apartment, dragging her from the thin veil of restless dreams. She slammed her hand down on the clock, groaning as the morning light pressed through the blinds in weak stripes.
For a moment, she stayed still—listening. No piano, no haunting melodies. Just the hum of the refrigerator, the distant rumble of traffic, the life of a city waking up without her permission.
She sighed, rubbing her face. Back to reality.
Her phone buzzed with notifications. Emails from the publishing house, a reminder from her editor, and three missed calls from her mother. Aria shut her eyes. Her mother's voice still echoed in her head from the last conversation: You can't just live in your grief forever. Life doesn't wait for you, Aria.
She pushed herself out of bed, feet cold against the hardwood floor. Her reflection in the mirror showed the truth she didn't want to see—dark circles under her eyes, a pale stiffness to her smile. She tied her hair into a loose knot and reached for the coffee pot.
The aroma of bitter brew filled the small kitchen, grounding her.
---
Aria worked as a freelance translator, mostly handling literary manuscripts. It wasn't glamorous, and it barely paid the rent, but it kept her tethered to the world of words and music, the things her father once loved.
This morning, the task was to finish proofreading a thick manuscript of romantic poetry for a European publisher. The verses blurred together as she tried to focus, but her mind betrayed her, wandering back to last night.
The stranger at the piano.
The melody of broken glass and breath.
The sheet music pressed against her chest, the ink bleeding in the rain.
Her fingers brushed the folder on her desk. She had placed the page inside carefully, as though it might crumble to dust if left unprotected.
"Silence."
The word stared back at her, steady, patient.
---
At noon, her phone buzzed again.
Maya.
Her best friend since college. Aria almost ignored the call, but then sighed and answered.
"You're alive!" Maya's voice burst through like sunlight through curtains. "Don't tell me you're still locked in your cave with coffee and dead poets."
"Guilty," Aria muttered, sipping her cup.
"Get out. Tonight. There's a small showcase at Vinyl & Verse—live music, local artists. You need this. You can't keep hiding in your apartment forever."
Aria froze. The name of the shop twisted something in her chest. She had seen it yesterday. The old sign, the window stacked with records.
Vinyl & Verse.
"Aria?"
She cleared her throat. "Yeah. Maybe."
"Maybe means yes. I'll pick you up at seven."
Before Aria could argue, the line went dead.
---
The hours bled away in restless half-work, half-distraction. By evening, Aria stood in front of her closet, debating. She finally chose a simple black dress, something understated. Not for anyone else—at least that's what she told herself.
The city's lights shimmered as Maya's car pulled up. Her friend leaned across the seat with a grin.
"Look at you. Elegance and mystery. If I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to impress someone."
Aria rolled her eyes but smiled faintly.
The shop was already alive when they arrived. Vinyl & Verse was a maze of old records, wooden shelves, and a small stage tucked in the corner. The air smelled of dust, coffee, and something floral—lavender, maybe.
Aria's chest tightened. The moment she stepped inside, she felt it again—that strange hum beneath her skin, like a memory pressing too close.
Maya disappeared into the crowd, waving at acquaintances. Aria lingered near a shelf of worn sheet music, fingers trailing the spines.
That's when she heard it.
A voice behind her. Low, hushed.
"Strange, isn't it? How music never really dies. It just waits."
Aria turned. An old man stood there, his hair silver, his coat heavy with rain stains. He smiled faintly at her, though his eyes seemed to look past her.
"You like the piano?" he asked.
Aria's pulse skipped. "Yes."
He nodded slowly. "Then you've heard him."
Her breath caught. "Him?"
The old man chuckled, almost to himself. "The boy who plays without words. Some say he's cursed. Others say he's a ghost of this city, bound to his silence."
A chill danced up her spine.
Before she could ask more, the lights dimmed and the showcase began. The room filled with applause, laughter, the warmth of strangers. But Aria barely heard it.
Her heart pounded. The boy who plays without words.
---
Hours later, she and Maya stepped back into the cool night. Maya was radiant, still buzzing from the music.
"See? You needed this. The world isn't as dark as you think."
But Aria hardly spoke on the drive home.
Her mind was full of silence.
Of scars across a jawline.
Of music that bled like grief.
And of an old man's voice: Some say he's cursed.
Back in her apartment, she unfolded the sheet music again, tracing the blurred notes with her fingertips.
"Who are you?" she whispered into the dark.
But the silence gave no answer.
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