I approached slowly, watching her fingers as they danced across the keys.
“I used to play,” I said. “But I stopped when I turned twelve.”
She didn’t respond at first. The song continued without interruption.
“I didn’t really have a choice,” I added, quieter now.
“I heard if two people know the same notes, they can speak through music,” she said softly, thenpaused. One wrong note, quickly corrected.
“And if you ever can’t talk,” she added, “you can leave me music instead.”
I watched her profile, the curve of her cheek, the stillness in her shoulders.
“You really think you know me already?” I asked.
“They told me,” she said, still facing forward. “They said you didn’t speak for years. That maybe you wouldn’t ever again.”
Then she turned her head. Her ocean eyes found mine.
“I like your voice.”
I didn’t answer right away.
I just smiled, a little lopsided.
“You’re trouble,” I said.
She gave the faintest smile and then looked back down at the keys. Her fingers resumed playing.
So young.
And still, I felt like I’d known her my whole life. Or maybe I just saw the parts of myself buried in her silence.
I turned away from her and walked toward the kitchen.
The kitchen hadn’t changed. Same tiled floor, same copper pots no one ever used, same smell of expensive nothing. I sat at the table, my hands on the edge of the wood, waiting.
Vivian entered moments later. She sat across from me, her lips were red as always, her eyes scanning mine for answers. She lit a cigarette with a snap and drew it to her lips, watching me over the smoke.
“How did you escape?” she asked casually.
I smirked. “Ghosts.”
She exhaled through her nose. “Fine. Don’t tell me.”
I nodded once.
A maid entered quietly, placing a plate of bread and a dish of butter on the table. She didn’t speak. Didn’t look anyone in the eye. Just lowered her head and left.
Moments later, Lenore came with her father. He reeked of smoke and bourbon, and Lenore had that smell of lavender that kept calming me down. Lenore sat without a word. She didn’t look at Vivian. Not once. And Vivian didn’t acknowledge her either.
Vivian poured me a cup of coffee, her long nails tapping gently against the porcelain.
“You’ll find the attic good for you,” she said smoothly. “It clears the mind.”
I reached for a piece of bread, dragging the butter across it. My hand paused halfway through.
“Is that what it did for Ian?” I asked without looking up.
