That feels like a lie too far.
The speaker finally steps down.The officiant hesitates, scanning the room, preparing to continue.
That’s when Isla stands.
The movement is so sudden it sends a ripple through the pews.Heads turn.Whispers spark instantly.
Callum’s breath catches.
What the hell is she doing?
She steps into the aisle without looking at anyone, heels clicking softly against stone.For a split second, Callum thinks she’s going to speak, say something sharp, something reckless.
Instead, she turns toward the piano.
A low murmur rolls through the chapel.
Isla sits at the bench.
No introduction.No permission.
She places her hands on the keys.
Callum recognizes the posture immediately, the way her shoulders settle, the way her fingers hover like they’re deciding whether to strike or soothe.
This isn’t performance.
This is confession.
She starts to play.
It’s one of Keir’s songs.
Callum knows it instantly, a crowd favorite, usually loud and electric, all swagger and deflection.
Isla guts it.
She strips it down to melody and bone, slowing it until every note aches.The piano doesn’t try to fill the space, it exposes it.Where Keir’s version hid pain behind bravado, hers drags the pain into the light and forces it to stay there.
Then she sings.
Her voice isn’t big.
It’s clear.Bare.Unforgiving.The words are her own to her father’s melody.
They say you lit up every room
Had the world hanging on your sound
Funny how a man that loud
Never made it back to town
Your face was on every magazine
Mine was pressed against the glass
Everyone got memories
