The next afternoon, Amelia found herself standing in front of a café near the University district, violin case in hand. She wasn't entirely sure why she had agreed to meet Elias again. A part of her told her she was being reckless. Another part—the part that had played his coded melody—was insatiably curious.
Inside, the café smelled of roasted beans and faint cinnamon. Elias was already there, seated by the window with his notebook open, scribbling furiously. He didn't look up when she approached.
"You're late," he said without greeting.
Amelia raised a brow, sliding into the seat across from him. "And you're rude."
For the first time, something almost like amusement flickered across his lips. "Fair."
She rolled her eyes but smiled despite herself. "So… what are you working on?"
He pushed the notebook toward her. Equations again, but this time, alongside them were faint sketches of staves, as if he was trying to fit numbers into the structure of actual music.
"I thought about what you said," Elias admitted. His tone was careful, as though confessions didn't come easily to him. "About letting music finish the equations. But I don't… know how."
Her fingers traced the margin of his notes. "That's because you don't feel it. You calculate it."
"Feelings are unreliable."
"They're the only thing that makes music alive." She looked up at him, meeting his gaze. "You can't reduce a heartbeat to an equation."
Elias tilted his head slightly, studying her with unnerving intensity. "And yet… your heartbeat has rhythm. Consistency. Tempo. Maybe that's why music exists. To prove that emotion still follows patterns."
Amelia froze, her pulse jumping under his stare. For a moment, she forgot the bustling café around them. It felt like the air itself had narrowed down to just him.
She quickly looked away, opening her violin case. "Alright, genius. Let's test your theory."
Pulling out her instrument, she began to play softly—an improvised tune, warm and gentle, like sunlight. Elias watched, unmoving, until she stopped and set her bow down.
"Now," she said, "you. Play something."
His brows drew together. "I don't play instruments."
"Then try," Amelia pressed, pushing the violin toward him. "Music isn't about being perfect. It's about being honest."
Elias hesitated, then reluctantly took the violin. It looked almost alien in his hands. He placed it under his chin, awkward, stiff, but determined. The first note was a disaster—scratchy and off-key. He frowned, trying again. The second note was worse.
Amelia bit her lip, stifling a laugh. "You're hopeless."
He glanced at her, dead serious. "I'm not used to failure."
Her laughter broke free, light and unrestrained. "Welcome to music, Elias."
Something shifted then. His expression softened, just slightly, as though her laughter had slipped past his walls. And when he handed the violin back, their fingers brushed—briefly, but enough to send a spark up Amelia's arm.
Neither of them spoke.
Finally, Elias cleared his throat. "Tomorrow. Same time. Bring your violin. We'll… attempt harmony."
Amelia smiled faintly, tucking the violin back into its case. "You mean we'll make music."
"No," Elias said, his voice lower now. "We'll make something… else."
And for the first time since they met, Amelia wasn't entirely sure if he was talking about music at all.