Three weeks passed. The harsh, bitter edges of winter slowly began to soften, giving way to the fragile, early hints of spring around Glenwood Cottage.
For Elara, the change wasn't just in the weather. It was in the daily, grueling routine she had established. Every morning, before she even touched the piano keys, she sat in the mismatched armchair and opened her laptop for her virtual session with Dr. Aris.
The exercises had moved past just breathing. Now, she was working on phonation—the actual creation of sound.
"Okay, Elara," Dr. Aris said through the speakers, her voice encouraging. "Let's try the hum again. Keep your hand on your chest. Feel the vibration. Don't push it into your throat. Let it sit right there behind your collarbone."
Elara closed her eyes. She pressed her palm flat against her chest. She had learned the hard way that forcing the sound only led to painful coughing fits and overwhelming frustration. She had to coax it out, like a frightened animal.
She took a deep breath. She pictured the notes of Leo's song, the warm C-major chord. Slowly, she exhaled and engaged her vocal cords.
*Mmmmm.*
It was a sustained hum. It lasted for a full three seconds. It was low, gravely, and vibrated intensely against her palm. It wasn't beautiful, but it was incredibly steady.
She opened her eyes, gasping slightly for air, but a massive grin broke across her face.
"Excellent," Dr. Aris beamed, clapping her hands silently on camera. "That was three seconds of pure, unsupported phonation. The circuit is reconnecting, Elara. The rust is falling off."
When the session ended, Elara didn't immediately go to the piano. She picked up her phone, opened her messaging app, and pulled up Julian's contact. She held down the voice record button.
She took a breath, pressed her hand to her chest, and hummed the exact same note for three seconds. She hit send.
Two minutes later, her phone buzzed with a reply from Julian. It was a picture of him in the bakery kitchen, a massive smudge of flour on his nose, holding up a whiteboard that read: *LOUD AND CLEAR. CELEBRATION TONIGHT. BE READY BY 7.*