fingers rest into the ivory, not pressing, not retreating. the sound that lingers in the air is fragile, like herself. head tilts, slightly, as if her hair is too heavy to allow it more freedom. when she looks at him, it is not quite eye contact, more——so an awareness of him, the way one senses something staring at them in the dark beyond. “ yes, ” a whisper, followed by a deep feeling —— confirmation that someone, something would notice this, how fitting it is him and and no one else. a faint, almost apologetic curve touches her mouth. “ it … would not stay as it was.” readily, her fingers resume, brushing the keys with a gentler insistence, reshaping the familiar line into something more intimate and vulnerable. notes are thinned, stretched —— made to mimic, ache, pull at the stitches within a wound. ㅤㅤ“ music remembers, ” she continues, voice barely louder than the instrument. “ even when i cannot. and when it remembers too much, it changes itself to survive. ” a glance flickers to the sheets, then away, as though the page might overhear. the melody blooms again. altered, unmistakably hers now. a religious undertone embedded into the hollow sound.