“I had a Steinway back home,” Amelia replies, her voice holding a note of wistfulness as her finger glides over the polish of the side of the piano.
“Back home, meaning London, in her case,” I mutter, and Grandpa looks at me in surprise.
“Well, it’s not home anymore,” Amelia murmurs.
Yeah, thank fuck. Or I’d have to fly over there to get her back.
For her sake, of course.
“You don’t have one here?” Grandpa presses, his brow arching.
“No, not here.”
“So, where do you play if you don’t own a piano?”
I suppress a scoff.
Ivor E. Key.
Amelia smiles sheepishly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I sometimes play on a public piano at Denny Park.”
Grandpa’s expression shifts to one of concern. “The old, dirty one? Amelia, that’s not safe and hardly a fitting instrument for someone of your talent.”
Amelia laughs lightly. “Why would a piano need to be safe? It’s not like I can get a splinter from playing it. And I don’t need much, only to play from time to time.”
He shakes his head, his tone becoming serious. “It’s unsafe to let your guard down completely. When you’re so absorbed in your music that you lose awareness of your surroundings… that’s what worries me.”
“Thank you,” I say, relieved.
Finally, someone sees reason.
Amelia frowns at me, probably puzzled about my strong opinion on something I just found out about.
Yeah, well, fuck.
“You might have a point. It never felt the same as playing at home on my piano, or like just now, but I just thought it was the state of the instrument,” Amelia relents.
Seeing an opportunity, Grandpa pulls out his business card from his shirt pocket, where he always has a few, no matter if he goes out or not, and hands it to her. “Amelia, you’re welcome to come over and play here anytime. Just shoot me a message, and I’ll make sure the door is open for you. I won’t bother you. I know sometimes you just need to play music. And if you everwant to chat, I’m always here for some good conversation and cake.”
His offer is so genuine, and the warmth in his eyes is so comforting that it makes me appreciate him even more. Amelia looks touched, a soft smile playing on her lips as she accepts his card.
“Thank you. I would love that,” she responds warmly, slipping the card into the pocket of her jeans. “Now, I only need to know your favorite kind of cake.”
Grandpa lets out a hearty chuckle, his eyes twinkling with delight. “You’ll have to surprise me.”
I’m so glad she won’t have to play outside anymore. The thought of her out there alone makes me anxious. I would have found excuses to be nearby just to ensure she was safe.
But now, knowing she has access to this place—my safe space—it feels like everything is falling into place.
TWENTY-TWO
The click-clackof my keyboard is louder than usual this morning, mirroring the erratic beat of my mood.
Sore muscles from the hike still make every movement a chore, and my cramps are in full force. The noticeable spot on my chin showed up in time with my period yesterday evening, and I probably look as bad as I feel.
Yet, a thrill still hums through me.
It’s such a strange contrast that even Hendricks notices.
