My voice sounds steadier than I feel. Behind me, she carefully replaces the violin in its case.
“Yes,” she says.
The storm continues outside, steady and patient.
Inside, the concerto lingers… warmth I thought I no longer deserved.
Chapter
Four
IVY
Another day, and snow still presses thick against the windows, blurring the world into white. The mountain continues to disappear in slow motion, edges softened, distance swallowed.
We are alone here now. Not stranded. Contained.
Reed moves through the cabin with deliberate economy. Coffee first. Fire second. Silence always. His shoulder shifts once when he reaches for another log, a subtle stiffness in the cold. He thinks I don’t notice.
I notice everything, perched at the kitchen table, wrapped in the flannel he brought me this morning. Yesterday’s shirt was black and blue. Today’s is burgundy, like flame. It smells of pine and sandalwood when I bring a sleeve to my nose.
His eyes darken at the gesture. His throat works once.
“You play?” I ask quietly, nodding toward the piano.
“Occasionally.”
He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t need to. The instrument carries fingerprints of recent use. The metronome sits wound but untouched. Discipline without permission.
I open my violin case. He doesn’t stop me.
“Play the transition,” he orders. No preamble.
I begin.
The opening phrase settles into the wood-paneled room differently than it does in a hall. Closer. Warmer. The sound lingers in the beams above us.
When I reach the fracture before the cadenza, I let it hover.
He stops me. “No, that’s not right.”
“And it’s not wrong.”
“You’re treating it as if it’s too fragile.” His tone isn’t cruel. It’s precise.
I lower the bow. “To me, it feels fragile.”
Silence stretches.
The fire shifts behind him. “It wasn’t unfinished,” he says at last. “It was interrupted.”
I wait.
“By betrayal.” The words land heavy but steadily. He doesn’t look away when he says it. “The concerto was for my wife. Every measure.”
Something inside me stills. I know this story, whispered in concert halls and practice rooms. But hearing it from him—his voice low and raw—it pulses through me like it’s somehow my own.
“And when you found out?” I ask gently.
