The silence in Glenwood Cottage wasn't peaceful; it was suffocating. It pressed against Elara's ears like heavy wool, a constant, aching reminder of what was missing.
Once, her life had been a vibrant symphony—the roar of applause in sold-out concert halls, the frantic energy of backstage chaos, and, most importantly, Leo's deep, resonant laughter acting as the bassline to her soaring melodies.
Now, six months after the crash, the only sounds were the ticking of a grandfather clock in the hallway and the ragged rhythm of her own breathing.
Elara stood in the center of the dusty living room, clutching a lukewarm mug of tea. She hadn't sung a note since that night. The doctors said her vocal cords were healed, physically scarred but functional. They called it "psychogenic aphonia." Her mind, unable to process the trauma of watching the love of her life slip away in the twisted metal of their car, had simply shut down the part of her that made music.
Her voice had died with Leo.
"Why did you come here, Elara?" she whispered to herself. Her speaking voice was rough, brittle like dry leaves crinkling, barely audible even in the dead quiet of the cottage.
She had rented this isolated place in the countryside to escape the pitying looks of her friends in the city, the constant reminders of the career she had abandoned, and the apartment that still smelled faintly of Leo's cologne. She wanted to bury herself in nothingness.
Setting the mug down on a scratched wooden table, she wandered deeper into the cottage. It was fully furnished, trapped in a time warp from the 1970s. The air smelled of mildew and old paper.
In the corner of what used to be a dining room, draped under a heavy, dust-coated white sheet, stood a large, imposing shape.
Elara stopped. She knew that shape. She had spent her entire childhood tracing the contours of shapes like that.
Her heart gave a painful thud against her ribs. Slowly, trembling, she reached out and gripped the edge of the sheet. With a sharp tug, she pulled it back, sending a cloud of dust motes dancing in the weak afternoon light filtering through the grimy window.
It was an upright piano. It was old, the dark walnut wood chipped in places, the brass pedals tarnished almost black.
She stared at it as if it were a ghost. Leo had played the piano. He was the composer to her lyricist, the melody to her harmony. Seeing the instrument felt like a physical blow.
*Don't touch it. Walk away.*
But her feet didn't listen. They carried her across the creaky floorboards until she was standing directly in front of the ivory keys, yellowed with age. She sat down on the precarious wooden bench. It groaned under her weight.
Her hands hovered over the keys. Her fingers, once nimble and confident, shook uncontrollably. She remembered the warmth of Leo's hands covering hers, guiding her through a difficult chord progression.
*"Music isn't just sound, El," he used to say, kissing her temple. "It's how we speak when words aren't enough."*
A tear finally broke free, hot and fast, tracking through the dust on her cheek. She closed her eyes, taking a shuddering breath.
Almost against her will, her right index finger lowered. It pressed down on Middle C.