The chapel bell rang in a lower register that morning, as if the air itself had thickened. The fog had lifted, but only slightly — enough to reveal the outlines of things, not their details.
Andrew stood by the window of the study hall, his back to the fireplace, a half-read book open in his hands. The words blurred together on the page. Outside, carriages trundled by, wheels cracking against the cobbles. Somewhere down the corridor, someone was laughing — the kind of laugh that doesn't belong to anyone in particular. It just echoes.
Emma wasn't there yet.
She was often late lately.
Andrew had grown used to it — the waiting. He didn't resent it. Love, in his mind, was partly that: patience without expectation. Still, the space beside him felt quieter now. Her absence no longer felt like a delay; it felt like distance.
He closed the book.
The study hall smelled of parchment, dust, and faintly of lavender — her scent still clinging to the wool of her scarf left behind the day before. He'd meant to give it back. He kept forgetting.
Or maybe he didn't.
As he waited, he found himself sketching again. His notebook, already half-filled with odd observations and unfinished melodies, had now become a quiet confessional — a place where he could draw her face the way he remembered it: turned slightly to the side, lost in thought, lips parted in some unspoken question.
He sketched her eyes carefully. Not because he was good at it, but because it felt right to try.
That afternoon, he visited the café by the glen.
They had once spoken of going there together. They never had. So he went alone.
The piano in the back corner stood silent, waiting. Red velvet curtains framed its shape like a memory. The place was mostly empty — a couple whispering near the hearth, a man in a long coat scribbling in a ledger.
Andrew ordered their usual drinks — black coffee for himself, and the cream-laced sweet one Emma liked. He drank both slowly. He thought the sweetness might fill the hollow in his chest.
It didn't.
He pulled out his journal and wrote nothing in it. Just stared at the page. Sometimes he wondered if pain could stain paper the way ink could. He hoped it couldn't. He didn't want anyone to read between the lines.
Later, he walked the long road toward the river. The sky was steel grey, the wind brisk but not cruel. He passed the stone bridge where they once sat sharing a pastry and mocking swans. She'd said something about wanting to write a book someday. He remembered how her eyes lit up then — how sure she sounded.
He still believed she could.
Andrew leaned against the balustrade and watched the water move slowly beneath. Leaves floated downstream, their colors faded into winter.
He wondered what she was doing.
Not in a jealous way. More like a prayer.
There was a time when he would've known. Now, he simply hoped she was smiling.
That night, he played the piano again.
He didn't go to the music hall. Instead, he returned to the chapel — where the old upright stood beneath the stained glass saints, chipped and slightly out of tune. He liked it better that way. Flawed things had honesty.
He played softly — so as not to wake the priest — letting the music unfurl slowly, note by note, like letters never sent. There was no audience. No applause. Just the echo of him and wood and memory.
And he thought, not for the first time, that love could be a quiet thing. A choice made daily, silently, without reward. A kind of devotion the world wouldn't recognize.
But it meant something.
It had to.
Before he left, he lit a candle. Not for faith. Just for light. He watched the flame flicker, then steadied, then rise straight.
He didn't pray.
He just stood there, watching it burn.