Page 74 of The Sound Between Us

I sit up straighter, heart thudding against my ribs, trying to get out. This is it. Her worst fear is playing out in high definition.

Seren rises slowly. Every inch of her is made of stone.

She walks with effort—every step toward that stage is another inch of herself she’s leaving behind.

Damon throws his arm around her shoulders with drunken affection, and I watch her shrink. Visibly; folding in on herself to survive it.

“Ladies and gentlemen, my daughter Serendipity Rogers. And she’s going to play us something special tonight.”

And that’s when I realise. The piano; the one centre stage, gleaming under the spotlights. It’s been there the whole time. Waiting.

This wasn’t spontaneous. This was staged.

Damon leads her to the bench, still basking in his own twisted version of fatherly pride. “What was that song you’ve just written, Seren? The one you were working on in London?”

Her face is porcelain; brittle. Hands hovering above the keys like she’s not sure they’ll obey her.

She could bolt. I think she wants to.

Then, her gaze lifts. Across the room; to me.

It’s brief; but it’s real. She’s looking for something. Permission; solid ground.

It’s not really my song to sing, she says.

It’s what she said to me that night in her flat. Only now she says it out loud; to eight hundred people.

I give her the smallest nod. It’s yours.

She turns back to the keys. Fingers trembling; and begins to play.

The first few notes are shaky; fragile. The song might fall apart before it even begins.

But then—the shift.

The melody settles. Her voice wraps around it. It’s always belonged to her.

It’s our song.

Only now it’s hers.

Raw. Wounded. Stripped of polish.

The room is utterly silent. Eight hundred people holding their breath.

When she hits the bridge, our bridge, I feel something inside me split clean in two.

She’s brilliant. Not in the flashy, palatable way this industry sells; but in the kind of way that makes your chest ache and your throat tighten. The kind of brilliance that doesn’t ask permission.

The final note lingers. A heartbeat; two.

And then she’s gone.

Off the bench; off the stage. Moving like she’s escaping a fire.

The applause comes too late to reach her. She’s already gone.

And I’m on my feet before I even know I’ve moved. Fuck the optics; fuck the press. I have to find her.

Because this place will eat her alive. And I cannot—will not—let her disappear again.