Looking around the room again, I see it differently now.Not just a music room, but a shrine to memories too painful to face.Every pristine inch of that piano, every yellowed sheet of music, every dust mote dancing in the dim light—they all tell a story.One that Cole has locked away, not just behind this door, but deep inside himself.
This isn't just about a piano.This is about loss, about pain, about secrets that have shaped the man standing before me.The weight of unspoken words hangs heavy in the air between us.
I want to ask so many questions.Why keep it locked away?Why maintain it so perfectly if you never play?What happened to make you hide this part of yourself?But looking at Cole—seeing how every second in this room costs him—I know I need to tread carefully.
Instead of speaking, I move closer to him, letting my presence offer whatever comfort he's willing to take.His eyes meet mine, a storm of emotions swirling in their depths—fear, pain, and something else.Something that looks almost like hope.
We stand there in the charged silence, surrounded by dust motes dancing in the dim light, waiting for whatever comes next.Whatever demons Cole's about to face, whatever ghosts live in this room with us, I'll be here.
Even if it means standing in this shrine to his pain until he finds the words to share it.
22
ALISHA
I draw closer to the piano, my fingers hovering over its pristine surface.A silver frame catches my eye, perched atop the sleek black finish.My heart catches as I study the photograph—a young boy, maybe six or seven, missing one of his front teeth as he grins at the camera.Even then, Cole had that enigmatic smile that could light up a room.
He's wearing a t-shirt with text that makes my throat tight:Life is like a piano.What you get out of it depends on how you play it.
The man sitting beside him must be his father.Tall, with shortish blond hair and a slimmer build, clean-shaven but with those same intense eyes.Samantha's right—her eye color is identical to her grandfather's, a fraction lighter than Cole's, but carrying that same magnetic intensity.
I sink onto the piano bench, still holding the photo, unable to look at Cole.The weight of this moment, of his trust in letting me see this, makes my voice barely a whisper."This beats the sex room I had in mind."
His slight snort cuts the tension for a second, but the air quickly grows heavy again."Whose piano is this?"
"Mine."The word comes out as barely a mumble.
"Yours?"I let that sink in before another question forms."So you...still play?"
"I used to."The raw discomfort in his voice makes me swallow hard.
"You don't love it anymore?"
He runs his hand through his hair repeatedly, a gesture so filled with anxiety it makes my chest ache.Then he moves toward me, taking a seat beside me on the bench.The moment he sits, he captures one of my hands, intertwining our fingers.His palm is sweaty against mine, and my heart pounds as I wonder which question to ask first.
I place the photo back carefully and turn to face the tormented man beside me.Starting with what I hope are easier questions, I ask softly, "How old were you when you started playing?"
He stares at the photo, tugging at his open shirt as his breathing becomes irregular.After swallowing hard and tightening his grip on my hand, he speaks."I was five.And from day one, it was clear—I had the same gift."
"Your parents must have been proud."
His lips curve slightly."Yeah, they were.Especially my father.He was a master player, performing at concert halls around the world.This similarity made our already powerful bond stronger."His voice softens with memory."From that day on, we played every day.And he taught me everything.Until..."
He gets that haunted look again and swallows."What happened?"I whisper.
"Disaster struck.My father slipped and fell during a bike ride and broke his right wrist in three places.He endured two operations but ended up with severe nerve damage—making it impossible for him to play longer than a few minutes."
I squeeze his hand."God, that must have been a nightmare."
Cole nods."It changed everything.Particularly the relationship I had with my parents.Since my father wasn't able to perform anymore, he started writing piano parts, and they focused their full attention on my music career."His jaw tightens."Being so young, I didn't mind and spent every second I was free playing.I won competitions, and my mom and dad were happy.They smiled when I played.But in my teens, it felt like all they cared about and saw was Cole, the gifted musician.Not Cole, their son."
My lip trembles at his heart-wrenching words.To think your parents only love you for your talent must be devastating.My fingers trace soothing patterns over the back of his hand."Is that why you stopped playing?"
A muscle in his jaw twitches."I quit because I don't deserve to play ever again."
"What?I don't understand."
His voice drops to a whisper, rough with pain."I killed my father, Alex."
