The apartment lights were dim.
Only the reflections from the city spilled across the marble floor — restless colors that moved like water.
Adrian sat at the piano again, a half-empty glass beside him.
The air smelled of whiskey and rain; somewhere, thunder muttered far beyond the skyline.
He played a few soft chords, slow and uneven, until the melody broke.
His hands slipped from the keys and fell into his lap.
The room felt too large, too bright.
He could almost hear her voice in the echo of the last note.
"You never finish what you start when you're sad, Adrian. You always leave the song hanging."
He turned toward the window.
Rain began to fall — thin streaks of silver running down the glass.
"You left me hanging first," he whispered.
The words startled him; he hadn't meant to speak them aloud.
But once they were out, they filled the room.
The storm outside deepened.
The city's noise blurred into a single low hum, and in that sound he thought he heard her again — not words this time, just the faint rhythm of her laughter woven through the thunder.
It was beautiful.
It was unbearable.