Everything else in the exhibition hall is dark, the stairs lit only by the faint glow of soft white lights built along their sides, the seats of the amphitheater empty in the shadows. She plays, her fingers sliding over the strings of a violin, and I stand there in the darkness, entranced.
Why did she come here? Why not choose a music room? But I know why she did it. She did it for the same reason I refuse to go to the music rooms. The acoustics. The notes live and breathe inside the exhibition hall, carrying to even the farthest corners of the room.
The stage is empty save for her and a piano behind her. She doesn’t even have a music stand in front of her, but it’s clear she doesn’t need it. Her fingers fly without hesitation, her head bent against the cradle of the violin.
Most people at the Academy play an instrument or two, the results of our overachieving parents, but I have never seen any of them play like her. She doesn’t play with acute, methodical perfection, her fingertips precise like the slice of a surgeon’s blade. She plays with her entire body, stooping and arching and bending. The music flows from her soul just as much as it does her fingers.
It is kismet to find her here. Even if I wanted to, I don’t think I could will myself to walk away. She is perfect, and I stalk forward, my steps light and my presence shrouded by shadows.
Stormy has no idea I am here, lost in a world where only she and the violin exist. As I tread down the steps toward her, my eyes remain on her, enthralled.
She’s wearing a sleeveless blue sundress that allows her free range of motion. Her eyes are closed, her body swaying, rising, and stooping with the music. She is a hurricane, confined only by her skin and bones. Her soul whirls inside her, desperate to escape, and, in her music, you can hear it yearning to be set free.
I recognize the piece, thanks to the tutors my mother hired before I could walk. The music is a little minimalistic for my mother’s taste though. She would prefer something ostentatious, but this is just as beautiful.
Spiegel im Spiegel by composer Arvo Pärt.
Stormy plays it beautifully, but there’s only one problem. It is supposed to be a duet. Why would she choose to play a duet?
There are a million other songs she could have chosen, devoted to only the violin. Yet, she chose a duet, and it makes me wonder why this song is so special that she desperately holds onto the half she can.
I continue up the stage, watching her, and take a seat at the grand piano behind her. It’s a Fazioli F308 donated by my father upon my acceptance to Voclain.
I would like to think my father knows I enjoy playing the piano, but I doubt it. This is just him showing off by having his name placarded onto the front of it. Regardless, it is perfection incarnate, and I let my fingers glide across the keys without pressing down.
I don’t want to interrupt, but I desperately need to be a part of this release. She plays as though to stop would mean surrender and she will never admit defeat. There is no question in my mind she finds catharsis in playing. I could use a little catharsis myself.
I am not sure I remember all the notes, but I will improvise.
I join her. She’s in the last half of the piece, and her head twitches for a moment, but she doesn’t stop. She doesn’t even turn to look at me. It’s as if the music is a rip tide that has pulled her under and keeps her there.
I lose myself to the current with her. My fingers find the keys with very little input from my brain. I am drifting, my movements fluid as the song overtakes me. It is beautiful, peaceful ecstasy.
As the last note falls from my fingers, I look up to find Harlow staring at me. She stands still, her eyes wide and her face ashen. Her knuckles hold her violin so tight they are blanched white. It takes me a moment, but I realize she is crying.
I stand and walk over to her, my steps slow and cautious. She doesn’t move. She just stares at me like she sees a ghost in my stead. When my loafers kiss her sandals, I raise my hand to brush away her tears.
“Why are you crying, Stormy?” I ask.
She looks like an angel, her impossibly blue eyes guileless and her hair like white lightning to her shoulders. I curl my finger around the black lock near her temple.
She blinks once. “You played beautifully, Ian.”
She didn’t answer my question, but just as I open my mouth to ask again, she adds, “I haven’t had the piano accompaniment since William.”
With those words, she bursts into tears, sobs wracking her delicate frame. I don’t know who William is, but I tug her into my arms, and she doesn’t fight it. As I hold her, I realize it was always a matter of time before we were here, with her in my arms. This is how it was always meant to be, providence in its purest form.
She quivers against me, weeping. I kiss the top of her head and let my head stay there, breathing in something floral from her shampoo.
She doesn’t hug me in return, but that’s okay. In one hand, she cradles the violin and in her other, the bow.
“Shh,” I say, holding her. “It’s all right.”
She sniffles loudly. I can feel her tears wetting my chest through my shirt.
“It will never be all right again,” she manages, her words edged with brutality.
“Let me help you, Harlow,” I plead, separating us just enough to look down at her.
Disbelief and then horror flash across
