Sarah's hands trembled as she pushed open the heavy oak door to the practice room.
The hinges gave a slow, aching creak, like a voice warning her she still had time to turn back.
But she stepped inside anyway.
The air smelled faintly of dust and old varnish, the kind of scent that clung to instruments left untouched for too long.
Her eyes swept the dim space, catching the way the sunlight slipped through the tall, narrow windows in thin, angled beams.
The piano waited in the center, its black surface glossy yet cold, like a blade left out in winter.
She let her fingers hover just above the keys, but they felt stiff, unwilling. It had been days since she'd played for anyone, and now the showcase loomed like a shadow swallowing the week whole.
She sat.
The bench creaked under her weight. The silence pressed against her ears until she could hear her own pulse, uneven, impatient.
She took a deep breath, lowered her hands, and played.
The first note came out too loud.
It cracked the stillness and made her flinch.
But she forced herself forward, each chord tumbling after the last like a stone rolling down a hill, gaining speed she couldn't quite control. Her breathing followed the rhythm; shallow, quick, desperate.
Halfway through, her thoughts began to splinter.
The music blurred.
She saw herself on the stage, lights burning her skin, faces lost in shadow, their attention heavy and sharp.
Somewhere among them, she imagined him, Mr. Finch, eyes patient, watching, calculating. Her fingers faltered, a wrong note twisting the melody.
She stopped.
The sound hung for a second and then fell away, leaving only her unsteady breaths.
She pressed her palms against her thighs and closed her eyes. It's just practice, she told herself. No one's here. No one's watching.
The door clicked.
Her eyes flew open.
Julian stepped inside, carrying a sketchpad under his arm. His gaze moved first to her hands, then to her face. He didn't speak, but the quiet between them wasn't empty, it felt like something alive, breathing in sync with her own heartbeat.
"You stopped," he said at last, his voice low, almost gentle.
"I messed up," she replied.
"You didn't mess up," he said, walking closer. His boots made a soft sound against the old wooden floor. "You got lost."
She frowned. "That's not better."
"It's different." He set his sketchpad on the edge of the piano, leaning on the side as though he belonged there. "Sometimes getting lost shows you something you weren't looking for."
His words lingered in the air like a slow echo. She wanted to answer, but the way he was watching her made it hard to breathe.
Julian's eyes flicked to the piano keys. "Play again," he said, but not as an order—more like a dare.
"I—" She shook her head. "I can't right now."
He didn't argue.
Instead, he flipped open his sketchpad and began to draw. The soft scratch of pencil filled the room. She turned away, but curiosity tugged at her. When she finally glanced back, she saw her own hands taking shape on the page, each tendon, each delicate shadow, caught in careful detail.
Her chest tightened.
"Why… me?" she asked quietly.
He didn't look up. "Because there's something in the way you hold yourself. Like you're ready to run, but you don't."
The words struck something deep. She wanted to laugh, or maybe cry. Instead, she stood. "I need air."
Without waiting for him to answer, she slipped past and out into the hallway. The air outside the practice room felt cooler, less heavy. She walked until the corridor ended at a side door, the one that led into the academy's small courtyard.
When she stepped outside, the sky was a pale gray, clouds moving slowly like they were holding their breath.
The wind brushed against her cheek, carrying the faint scent of rain. The courtyard was empty, save for a few bare trees whose branches scraped softly in the breeze. She closed her eyes, trying to let the air wash away the tension coiled in her chest.
She thought about the showcase again. About how she would have to stand there, exposed, no hiding in the shadows.
The thought made her stomach knot, but the wind whispered against her skin, and for a moment, she let herself believe she might survive it.
Footsteps sounded behind her. She turned to find Julian in the doorway, the sketchpad still in his hand. He didn't step outside, just leaned against the frame, watching her like she was another scene to be drawn.
"You don't like crowds," he said.
She gave a short laugh. "That obvious?"
"Only to someone who notices."
There was no teasing in his tone, only quiet certainty. She met his gaze for a moment, then looked away, afraid of what he might see if she didn't.
A drop of rain touched her hand.
Then another.
Within seconds, it became a light drizzle, speckling the stone path at her feet. She turned toward the door, and Julian stepped aside to let her pass. As she brushed by, her sleeve grazed his, and the faint warmth of him lingered even as she moved away.
Back in the practice room, the air felt warmer than before, as though the space had absorbed something from their absence.
She sat again at the piano.
Julian stayed near the doorway, not speaking.
Her fingers rested on the keys. She thought about the rain falling outside, steady, unhurried. She began to play again, not for the showcase, not for the faceless crowd she feared, but just to fill the room with something that wasn't silence.
The melody came softer this time, more careful, but steady.
Julian didn't move, didn't draw, just listened.
And in the quiet between each note, Sarah felt something shift, not gone, but lighter, as though the shadow in her chest had loosened its grip just enough to let her breathe.
When the final note faded, she didn't look up. She didn't need to. She could feel his eyes on her, steady, unwavering, and for a moment, the weight of the stage ahead didn't seem quite as impossible.