Amelia couldn't get his name out of her head.
Elias Volkner.
It had been two days since their collision at the station, yet the memory still clung to her—his piercing grey eyes, the cold certainty of his words, and the sheet of numbers that had somehow improved her music.
She had played the piece over and over that night. It startled her how right it sounded, how complete. And that terrified her more than anything.
Music was supposed to be hers, not dictated by a stranger's equations.
---
That evening, after her part-time shift at a café, Amelia slipped into one of Vienna's old music halls. It was nearly empty, the orchestra gone, only faint echoes of rehearsals still vibrating in the wooden walls. She often came here when she needed space to breathe.
She sat at the edge of the stage, pulling out her violin. The polished wood caught the dim light, glowing like amber. Closing her eyes, she began to play.
Soft, fragile notes filled the air, her bow gliding across the strings as though she could pour her frustrations into sound. But when she reached the sequence Elias had "corrected," her heart hesitated.
And then she played it—his way.
The melody soared higher than she imagined, as if something hidden had been unlocked. It wasn't just music anymore; it was alive.
A slow clap echoed behind her.
Her bow froze mid-air.
Turning, she saw him—Elias Volkner, standing at the back of the hall, his hands tucked neatly into his coat pockets, his expression unreadable.
"You followed me?" Amelia's voice cut through the silence.
"I don't follow people," Elias replied, stepping forward. His footsteps were precise, almost too controlled. "I calculate probabilities. And I knew there was a high chance you'd be here."
She frowned. "That's… not normal."
He tilted his head slightly, studying her as though she were a puzzle. "Neither is your music. You play as if you're trying to fight the world and love it at the same time."
The words startled her. It wasn't flattery. It wasn't rehearsed. It was observation—raw and unnervingly accurate.
"You think you know me after two minutes at a train station?" she challenged.
"No," Elias said softly, stopping just a few feet from her. "But your music does."
Amelia's chest tightened, her defenses faltering. He wasn't charming. He wasn't even trying. And yet, there was something in the way he looked at her—like she was an equation he couldn't solve, and it frustrated him.
She lowered her violin. "Why are you here, Elias?"
He hesitated, then pulled a folded page from his coat pocket and set it on the stage before her. More numbers. But this time, the equations weren't simple. They curved into shapes, forming something almost… poetic.
"It's incomplete," he said, his voice unusually quiet. "But if you play this, you'll hear what I can't say."
Her eyes lifted to his. "And what exactly can't you say?"
Elias held her gaze, and for the first time, his calm mask cracked ever so slightly.
"…Everything."
The silence that followed was heavier than any melody.
And for the first time, Amelia realized that Elias Volkner wasn't just strange. He was dangerous—in the way only someone who could change your entire life without meaning to, could be.