He went back inside, soaked through, leaving small footprints across the marble.The piano waited, keys pale in the dim light.He sat down, hands trembling, and began to play.
The melody came hesitant at first — the same waltz from across the street, but gentler, slower.He followed it, note by note, until it became his own.
The whisper tried once more:"You think this will bring her back?"
"No," he said quietly. "But it'll keep me here."
He played until the storm softened to drizzle and the city's hum returned.The first pale hint of dawn touched the edge of the clouds, silvering the rain on the window.
When the last note faded, he stayed where he was, fingers resting on the keys, eyes closed.
Inside me, the familiar presence stirred — that unseen judge of this strange redemption.
"Four turned from the edge. Three remain."
The words echoed and then were gone.
Adrian opened his eyes.The city beyond the glass was washed clean, shimmering under the newborn light.He smiled — faintly, painfully, but real.
He would sing again.Not for applause.For himself.For her.For the sound of life refusing to end.