Charlotte stood very still, her throat tight.
Edward rose slowly, one hand remaining at Julian’s shoulder.
“It can be mended,” he added. “Or replaced. We are still here. That is what counts.”
Charlotte felt warmth flood her chest at his steadiness—the choice he had just made. Not to retreat. Not to harden.
Julian wiped his eyes and looked determined once more. “Then we shall play.”
They moved to the pianoforte.
Charlotte took her place beside Julian, hands hovering above the keys. She felt Edward’s presence behind them like a current in the room.
“Ready?” she whispered.
Julian nodded.
They began.
It was not perfect. Julian rushed in places. Charlotte softened the edges where she could. The melody—simple and earnest—filled the room, weaving through the scent of flowers and candlelight.
Edward did not move.
The song ended on a slightly uneven chord.
Silence followed.
Edward cleared his throat. Once. Then again.
“It is … exceptionally well executed,” he said.
Julian beamed. “You liked it?”
Edward nodded. His voice was thick despite his effort to steady it. “It is the finest gift I have received in many years.”
Julian launched himself forward, arms wrapping around his waist.
Edward closed his eyes and held him tightly.
Charlotte saw it—the shine in his eyes before he turned slightly away, brushing them with discreet precision.
He thought Julian had not noticed.
Julian had not. But she had.
And when his gaze found hers again over his son’s head, there was no distance left in it at all.
Only gratitude.
And something far more encompassing.
***
The house quieted by degrees.
Julian had fallen asleep mid-sentence, one hand still curled in the fabric of Edward’s sleeve as though afraid the day might vanish if he loosened his grip.
Charlotte had watched from the doorway as Edward carefully disentangled himself and drew the blankets up beneath the boy’s chin.
