The air inside the house always felt still, as if time had settled into the quiet corners and refused to move. Lila had never explored much beyond her bedroom and the kitchen, but today, something pushed her forward.
Maybe it was the way the afternoon sunlight slanted through the hallway. Maybe it was the faint memory of music drifting through her mind, teasing her with something almost forgotten.
She walked past old picture frames, past the quiet hum of Walter brewing tea in the kitchen. Her feet carried her toward a room she had never really paid attention to before.
The door was slightly ajar.
She pushed it open.
Inside, the room smelled faintly of dust and aged wood. There wasn't much furniture—just a worn-out bookshelf, a few chairs, and against the far wall, an old upright piano.
Lila froze.
The sight of it made something in her chest tighten.
She had almost forgotten.
Her mother used to play.
Soft lullabies on rainy nights. Gentle melodies while making breakfast. Songs filled with warmth, love, and everything Lila had lost.
Her hands trembled as she stepped closer.
The piano was old, its wooden frame scratched, but the keys were still there, waiting.
She hesitated.
Then, with a deep breath, she pressed one.
A single note rang out—soft, uncertain.
Lila exhaled.
She pressed another. And another.
The sound was simple, broken, but it filled the emptiness around her.
She didn't know how long she stood there, playing scattered notes, lost in the sound of something long buried.
She didn't hear Walter at the door.
He didn't say anything. Didn't interrupt.
He just listened.
And for the first time in a long while, the silence between them wasn't empty.
It was filled with something new.
Something that almost felt like hope.