Prologue
The bow slid across my violin strings, and the sound that bloomed felt like breathing. It wasn’t just music, it was a part of me. Something I could never put into words, something that lived in the hollow of my chest and poured out whenever I played. Tonight, as I stood on the stage of Verdanne’s small concert hall, I let myself forget everything else: the weight of coins we didn’t have, the weakness in my brother’s smile, the endless days of waiting for good news that never seemed to come.
For a moment, there was only music.
The audience was silent, rows of faces lost in shadow except for the ones close to the lantern light. I never looked at them when I played. If I did, nerves would crawl over my skin and I’d start thinking instead of feeling. So I closed my eyes and imagined home—the smell of my mother’s herbs drying near the hearth, the soft hum of wind through our cottage windows, my brother’s cough muffled behind the sound of a turning page as he read. I always played for him. Every note belonged to him.
When the final chord trembled into silence, it lingered like the aftertaste of something sweet. Then the applause broke. Loud, eager, echoing through the little hall. People stood, clapped, whistled. Someone threw roses toward the stage, petals scattering at my feet.
I dipped into a bow, smiling though my chest still ached from holding the music in. My fingers trembled as they lowered the violin, not from fear but from release. Applause was nice—it meant I could keep earning, keep saving—but the real reward waited at home, in the way my brother’s eyes lit up when I told him about the performance.
“Miss Elara!” A man pressed forward from the crowd, extending a single rose. His smile was wide, his cheeks flushed. “A flawless piece. You’ve outdone yourself again.”
I forced another polite smile as I accepted the rose. Compliments were part of this life, but I never let myself believe too much in them. Music was fragile. Today they loved you, tomorrow they forgot.
Still, I tucked the rose into my violin case and thanked him before slipping backstage. The air there was cooler, quieter. My shoulders loosened as I shut the door behind me, leaning for a moment against the wooden frame.
Home. I wanted to go home.
>>
The walk back was calm, the kind of evening where the sky was painted lavender and the cobblestones still held the warmth of the sun. Children’s laughter echoed from the alleyways, merchants closed up their stalls, and lanterns flickered to life one by one. Verdanne was alive but gentle at this hour, its heartbeat steady.
Our cottage stood a little apart from the town, up a narrow slope lined with wildflowers. The garden in front was my mother’s pride—an untamed sea of herbs and blossoms that climbed over the fence like they owned it. I slipped through the gate, breathing in the mingling scents of rosemary, lavender, and damp earth.
Inside, warmth wrapped around me instantly. The fire in the hearth crackled, and the faint clatter of pans drifted from the kitchen.
“Elara?” My mother’s voice carried, followed by her figure emerging with flour-dusted hands. Her eyes—soft, tired, but always gentle—lit up when she saw me. “You’re back earlier than I expected.”
I set down my violin case on the table, smiling. “The performance wasn’t very long. I wanted to be home before supper.”
Her gaze flickered to the roses poking out of my case. She laughed, brushing her apron. “Another admirer?”
“Just someone being polite.” I shrugged, trying not to blush.
“Mm. You say that every time.” Her knowing look followed me as I made my way toward the sitting room.
And there he was—Aiden. My brother sat curled in the armchair by the fire, a blanket draped around his thin shoulders, a book open in his lap. His hair, darker than mine, fell into his eyes until he pushed it back with a pale hand.
“You missed my best performance,” I said, teasing, as I dropped into the chair opposite him.
He looked up, his lips curving into that familiar crooked smile. “I’ve heard you play enough times to know it was flawless.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do,” he replied simply, and for a moment, he looked less fragile, more like the boy who used to chase me barefoot through the fields.
I bit back the lump rising in my throat. “I’ll play for you later. Something just for us.”
He nodded, closing his book. “Deal.”
>>
Supper was simple—vegetable stew, bread still warm from the oven—but it was perfect. My father joined us late, his hands rough with soil, his laugh filling the cottage as though nothing could touch us here. For that hour, the world outside didn’t exist. There were no debts, no sickness, no uncertainty. Just family, the kind of love that made every hardship bearable.
Afterward, I carried my violin upstairs to my room. The window was open, letting in the cool night air. I set the roses on the sill, their petals glowing faintly in the moonlight. Then I stood there for a while, staring at the stars.
I should have felt content. I did feel content, in a way. My life was small but full—music, family, dreams I was still foolish enough to hold onto.
But a strange sensation tugged at me. The kind that makes you glance over your shoulder when no one’s there.
I shook it off, pulling the blanket around me. Just nerves from performing. Just exhaustion. Nothing more.
And yet, as I laid down, violin still resting beside me, the thought refused to leave: what if someone had been watching tonight?
>>
The days that followed melted into one another. Morning practice, afternoons helping my mother, evenings filled with my father’s stories and my brother’s laughter when he wasn’t coughing. On weekends, I played at the hall, earning enough to keep us steady. Life was simple. Predictable.
But sometimes, I felt it again—that faint tug, as though unseen eyes lingered in the corner of every stage, every street. I never found proof, never caught anyone following me. But my skin prickled when I left the hall at night, and my footsteps always quickened, no matter how many times I told myself I was imagining it.
Still, I ignored it. What else could I do? Fear was useless when there was nothing to name.
One evening, after another performance, I walked home beneath a sky heavy with clouds. The streets were emptier than usual, shadows stretching longer. My violin case felt heavier in my hand. I quickened my pace, heart thudding too loudly for such a quiet night.
When I reached our cottage, relief washed over me. Light glowed in the windows, steady and safe.
Inside, everything was the same. My mother humming as she tidied the kitchen. My father mending a chair by the fire. Aiden asleep in the armchair, his book slipping from his hand. Peace. Home.
I pressed my back against the door for a moment, listening to the steady rhythm of it all.
It was fine. Everything was fine.
And yet, I couldn’t shake the feeling that somewhere out there, hidden in the dark beyond our little hill, someone had heard the same music I poured my soul into. Someone who wasn’t content to just listen.
Someone who was waiting.
