She didn't tell him she was coming
She stood at the edge of the open terrace of
the hilltop bookstore, hidden in the
shadows, wrapped in her lavender sweater.
The only light came from scattered lanterns
and the fading sun.
He sat with his cello, alone, as if the world
had quieted just for them,
When the bow met the strings, something
inside Fiona cracked.
It wasn't a song-it was a story. One of
longing and gentle sorrow. Of unspoken
words and dreams stitched together with
scars. It was as if his hands were reaching
inside her chest and pulling every broken
piece of her into music.
Tears welled up
She bit her lip, turned her face away, wiping
her cheeks quickly--but the cello didn't
stop. It rose, deeper now, like it knew. Like it
was wrapping around her.
She felt him near before she saw him.
He didn't touch her. Didn't ask. Just sat
down on the floor beside her, his cello still
resting between his knees
Silence.
And then, softly:
"Can I stay with you.. like this?"
She nodded
Her voice wouldn't come out-but her body
leaned ever so slightly toward him, needing
just enough closeness to not feel alone.
He set the cello gently aside. Then, in the
gentlest motion, he placed his jacket over
her shoulders like a silent shield.
No words.
No pressure
Just warmth
And after a long, quiet moment, he
whispered, almost reverently*
"Even your tears are beautiful, you know."
Fiona's breath caught. The kind of
compliment that doesn't ask for thanks,
only deserves trust.
She closed her eyes and leaned her head
against his shoulder.
And finally, she whispered back:"Thank you.. for not asking me why."