The notice appeared overnight.
It was pinned to the velvet covered bulletin board in the main hall, catching the pale morning light that spilled through the tall windows.
The paper was thick. Cream-colored.
The handwriting, sharp, elegant...was the kind of beauty that could cut.
Mandatory Student Showcase.
The words hummed on the page, carrying an authority that allowed no argument.
Beneath them was a neat list of names.
Her eyes skimmed quickly, hoping no, praying not to find her own.
But there it was.
Sarah Vance – Piano.
Her breath caught.
The heavy dread she'd been carrying since arriving at Redwood sank deeper, spreading through her like ice water.
She had wanted time.
Time to steady herself in this place.
Time to understand the breathing walls.
Time to figure out the shrouded mirror in the music wing.
Time to gather the pieces of herself before anyone saw her play.
But Redwood didn't give time.
The showcase was in two days.
Her mind went straight to that night in the hidden practice room.
The feel of the keys beneath her fingers… turning warm, then sticky.
Like flesh.
Even now, she swore she could still feel it clinging to her skin.
Her violin hadn't been touched since she arrived.
It stayed in its case at the back of her wardrobe.
Like a coffin.
Opening it would feel like disturbing a grave.
And yet… they were ordering her to play.
To sit before silent, judging students.
To feel Mr. Ezekiel's stern eyes on her.
To face Mr. Finch's perfect smile.
And show them what she'd become.
The quiet panic she'd been holding down roared up, sharp and merciless.
The two days blurred together.
She drifted through the corridors like a ghost.
Eyes on the floor.
Shoulders hunched in, as if bracing for an unseen blow.
The low voices of other students passed over her without meaning.
Once, she saw Julian.
He was in the courtyard, standing beneath the skeletal branches of a leafless oak.
A sketchbook rested in his hands.
When their eyes met, he didn't smile.
Didn't nod.
Just… watched.
His gaze was steady, unreadable.
Like he could see the showcase hanging over her like a blade.
Then he turned and walked away.
Swallowed by the gray afternoon.
She saw Mr. Finch, too.
He moved without sound, his steps swallowed by the stone floor.
His smile curved across his face, the perfect one that never reached his eyes.
"I'm so looking forward to your performance, Miss Vance," he said.
His voice was warm, smooth.
Like honey covering something sharp.
"We're all eager to hear what you're truly made of."
It didn't sound like encouragement.
It sounded like someone studying a crack in glass, waiting for it to spread.
The night of the showcase came cold and still.
The rain had stopped, but the air was damp. Heavy.
The performance hall was a cavern of polished wood and shadows.
At its center stood the grand piano, shining under the stage lights.
Its open lid looked like a black wing.
Or a hungry mouth.
Students and faculty filled the rows of stiff wooden chairs.
No one whispered.
No one shifted in their seats.
The silence pressed in, thick and unnatural.
Like the air just before a sacrifice.
Her palms were slick with sweat.
Her uniform collar felt too tight, pressing against her throat.
When her name was called, it echoed in the vaulted room.
Every head turned.
A hundred eyes pinned her in place.
She stood.
Her knees locked, stiff and reluctant.
The floorboards under her shoes creaked softly, the sound somehow too loud.
Her heartbeat was in her ears.
The aisle to the stage felt longer than it should.
Each step landed like a lonely drumbeat.
When she reached the piano bench, the cold of it bled through her skirt.
Her fingers hovered above the keys.
Shaking.
She curled them into fists.
The black and white keys stared back like a graveyard.
She tried to remember the colors her notes used to have.
The soft blue of C.
The warm gold of E.
But there was nothing.
Only gray.
Only emptiness.
She had to play something.
Anything.
She chose a simple prelude she'd loved as a child, a piece that had once felt like home.
She pressed the first key.
Pain exploded behind her eyes.
Not a headache.
A spike, sharp and sudden, driven straight through her skull.
Her breath caught.
The air thickened.
The lights blurred until the audience melted into faceless shadows.
She flinched, her hands pulling back but she couldn't stop.
The sound pouring from the piano wasn't hers.
The gentle melody she remembered was gone.
Twisted.
Each note scraped and clashed.
The dissonance made her teeth ache.
It didn't sound sad anymore.
It sounded furious.
Ugly.
Like a scream caught in someone's throat.
She shut her eyes, but the darkness was worse.
Colors flared, bruised purples, acid greens, a deep, pulsing red that throbbed with her heartbeat.
They writhed and bled together until her stomach turned.
Her hands moved without her.
The keys were cold now.
Sharp.
As if the piano itself wanted to push her away.
The static in her head grew louder, roaring over everything.
She risked a glance at the audience.
Mr. Ezekiel's face was unreadable, mouth a flat line.
The students stared without expression.
And then,
Mr. Finch.
Smiling.
Not the polite smile she'd seen before.
This one was alive.
His eyes were wide, bright with fascination.
Like he was watching something he'd built finally come alive.
That look broke something inside her.
The last chord she struck crashed down like a door slamming shut.
It hung in the air, vibrating against the silence.
She didn't wait for applause.
Her hands shook as she stood.
Her legs felt ready to give way.
The clapping started behind her.
Not loud.
Not warm.
Just polite.
Dismissive.
Like small stones hitting the ground.
She pushed through the heavy doors into the empty corridor.
The cold stone wall caught her weight.
Her lungs pulled tight.
Her hands wouldn't stop trembling.
The hollow ache she'd been carrying for weeks was gone, replaced by something heavier.
It wasn't just failure.
It wasn't just shame.
It was the truth.
Her music was no longer hers.
It was a cage.
And the man holding the key was sitting in the front row.
Still smiling.