The music drifted through the empty house, soft, slow. A whisper of melody. Michael barely breathed.
It had been years since he last heard it. Since she played it. The old piano sat against the wall, dust-thick, untouched. No one else knew that song. Not his new wife. Not his friends. Only her.
And she was dead.
A cold hand traced his spine. He stepped toward the hallway. The notes curled through the air, growing louder. Each step felt like walking into a memory, a place where time folded in on itself. His pulse hammered.
The living room was empty. No one sat at the piano. But the keys moved. Soft, slow. A ghost’s lullaby.
Michael’s breath hitched.
She had played that song the night before the crash. Before the fire. Before the hospital called at 3 a.m. with a voice that turned his world into ash.
He reached for the piano lid. The music stopped.
Silence.
The keys were still. The air smelled of dust and something fainter. Perfume. Her perfume.
His throat clenched.
Then, just as he turned to leave—
A single note rang out. High. Piercing. Final.
Michael ran.
Behind him, the piano whispered its last chord.
