This one is grand. A cathedral in song. The opening chords thunder—rich, booming, reverent. My whole body vibrates with them, the sound spiraling up through my spine.
The hall glows under its weight.Liszt: Weihnachtsbaum No.4 — “Adeste Fideles”
My fingers dance between power and tenderness— a bright, triumphant melody layered over deep, resonant bass lines. Halfway through, I feel tears rise. Because this piece… this moment… thislife… is nothing like the girl I once was. And everything like the woman I’m trying so hard to become.
My gaze lifts again—Cillian is smiling. Slow. Soft. Like he’s falling in love with me all over again right here, right now, in front of all of Dublin.
I swallow the ache in my throat and lean into the final swelling chords, each one ringing like bells over snowy rooftops. When the last note settles into silence, the hall explodes.
Applause. Cheers. People standing, clapping, shouting my name. I sit still for a moment, hands trembling above the keys, the charm warm against my wrist. Tonight… I am everything they asked me to be. And yet—I’m about to be something more. Because I have a surprise. A big one.
I rise from the bench slowly, pulse still thrumming from the last shimmering chord. The hall glows— gold, green, red, Irish winter magic pressed into every garland and glittering light. I smooth my gown, take a step toward the microphone, and smile.
“Thank you,” I say, breathless. “Go raibh míle maith agaibh.4”
The crowd quiets, leaning in.
“I have… one more surprise for you tonight.” A soft, collective murmur ripples through the space. “But I won’t be playing it alone.”
The audience shifts—excited, curious, enchanted.
“I’ve invited some very special guests to join me,” I continue. “Students from theScoil Ceoil na nAingeal.5”
Instantly, the room warms with delighted whispers. The curtains at stage right rustle, and then… A handful of children burst out like joyful confetti. Little coats, shiny shoes, red cheeks, wide eyes that sparkle under the spotlights. They wave wildly when they see me, and even more wildly when they spot Cillian in the front row. One of the teachers, flushed and laughing, ushers them into a line while another carries a single cello—small, polished, clearly well-loved.
The youngest girl clutches my hand as she reaches me. “Miss Kelleher! We get to be on stage withyou! OnChristmas! We are so lucky!”
My heart melts. “I’m the lucky one,” I whisper back.
They giggle—all nerves and excitement—and my chest aches with the sweetness of it. The cello is placed near center stage. A little boy, freckles bright as stars, settles onto the chair and sets the bow ready across the strings. He looks at me for reassurance.
I nod. “You’re perfect.”
Cillian stands now—slowly, like something sacred is happening. His eyes shine, unshed tears catching the light, his jaw working as he tries not to break apart entirely. I meet his gaze. And—God— he looks at me like he’s seeing the woman he prayed for and the future he never thought he’d have.
His charm hangs from my wrist, catching a glint of gold in the spotlight. It warms against my skin, reminding me of his words.I swallow. Then smile at him. He smiles back— and one tear slips free. My own vision blurs. I turn to the microphone.
“For our final piece,” I say softly, “we’ll be playing ‘Silent Night’… blended with ‘Prince of Peace.’ A Christmas blessing… from all of us.”
The crowd erupts—soft gasps, warm applause, a hush of anticipation. I take my seat at the piano again. The children gather close. The cello waits for its first gentle hum. Cillian presses his hand to his mouth, eyes locked on me, like he’s completely undone.
The hall goes still as I lay my hands on the keys. The children straighten, clutching their little folders of lyrics, eyes bright. Behind them, the cello rises to the player’s shoulder, bow trembling just a little with nerves. I inhale once. Then—Music.
Warm, deep, golden. The opening progression ofPrince of Peacepours from the piano like a prayer I didn’t know I still remembered how to say. The cello enters onSilent Night, soft as breath, sliding beneath my melody like a ghost of every Christmas I ever loved.
The children begin to sing. Their voices are thin at first — small, shy, uncertain — and then they lift. Soft. Clear. Angel-bright.
Goosebumps ripple up my arms so violently I nearly miss a chord.
My foot presses the pedal. The harmonies swell. The hall vibrates with sound — pure, unbroken, holy.
I risk a glance toward the back of the room.
Cillian is standing now. Not sitting. Not relaxed. Not composed. Standing — like something in him is unraveling in real time. His eyes are shining. His hand is pressed to his mouth. His other clenches over his heart like it hurts him to look at me.
The charm he gave me glints on my wrist, catching the stage light — a small golden memory of the boy I once loved and the man I love still.
Peace, peace, Prince of Peace…
