I make my way to the solarium, following the familiar route past armed guards who pretend not to see me. The glass-walled room is flooded with afternoon light, the table already set for two.
But Elio isn’t there.
Relief washes through me first, my body relaxing for just a beat before, another feeling follows, a twist in my chest that feels horrifyingly like disappointment.
I sit. Wait. Pick at bread that tastes like sawdust.
He doesn’t come.
An hour drags by. The food congeals on my plate. I can’t swallow, can’t force down a single bite, and I don’t understand why his absence has carved me hollow.
He’s your kidnapper. You should be celebrating.
Instead I feel… empty.
I abandon the untouched meal and wander the halls. Not looking for anything. Definitely not looking for him.
Liar.
Music stops me cold.
A piano. Somewhere deep in the villa, someone is playing.
The melody drifts through the corridors, haunting, aching, built from notes that reach inside my chest andsqueeze. Each phrase rises and falls, layering over itself, building intensity until the sound becomes almost unbearable.
I follow it.
Through halls I’ve memorized and others I haven’t. Past doorways, windows, and guards who watch but don’t stop me. With every step the music grows louder, pulling me forward like a current I can’t fight.
The room I reach is nothing like the rest of my prison. Sparse. Almost empty. Floor-to-ceiling windows on three sides, light pouring in from every angle. And in the center?—
A grand piano. Black as night.
And Elio.
He sits with his back to me, shoulders bowed over the keys, completely lost in the music. His fingers move across the ivory with precision. Each note placed with restraint, building something beautiful and terrible note by note.
The melody starts careful. Measured. But then it swells, the restraint cracking open, and suddenly the music ispouringout of him like blood from a wound. Rising and falling and rising again, each phrase more intense than the last, accumulating weight and grief until I can barely breathe through it.
I step closer. Can’t stop myself.
His eyes are closed. His face?—
There’s pain there. Real pain. Not the controlled mask he wears every day, but something raw and unguarded andhuman. As if each stroke of the keys costs him something he can’t afford to give.
I’m right beside him without having any recollection of crossing the room.
The music stops.
His eyes open and land straight on mine.
We stare at each other across the sudden silence. The air between us thick enough to choke on.
“What was that?” My voice comes out rough.
Elio swallows. Looks away, out the window at nothing.
“Experience,” he says. “Ludovico Einaudi.”
