Chapter Four: Beneath the Quiet Sky
"Sometimes, healing begins not with grand confessions—but with shared silence."
The storm had passed, leaving behind a world rinsed clean.
Sunlight filtered through the damp trees, catching on beads of rain that clung to every leaf like crystal tears. The earth smelled of moss and beginnings. Lyra stood at the cottage's doorstep, watching the world exhale in peace.
Inside, Corin sat at the hearth, a steaming cup of tea cradled in his hands. His usual distance had softened—not vanished, but loosened like an old knot finally giving way. The fire crackled between them, and for once, the silence was not a wall but a bridge.
Lyra sat beside him on the worn rug, drawing her knees to her chest. Neither of them spoke for a long while. It was Corin who broke the quiet.
"When I first came here," he said slowly, "I wanted to disappear."
She glanced at him, surprised. He rarely spoke of himself.
"I thought if I stayed hidden long enough, the world would forget me—and I could forget myself."
He turned the cup in his hands, watching the swirl of steam.
"But you," he said, "you didn't let me."
Lyra's chest tightened.
"I wasn't trying to fix you," she whispered.
"I know," he said, voice low. "That's why it worked."
A bird called outside. The fire shifted.
"I used to dream," Lyra said, "about being a musician. I wanted to travel, play in concert halls with golden lights and a quiet crowd waiting to hear just me."
Corin smiled faintly. "I can see that."
"My mother thought it was childish. Said it would never feed me. So I stopped playing. Stopped dreaming."
He looked at her, eyes more open than she'd ever seen.
"You should play again."
She shook her head, a bitter smile touching her lips. "I wouldn't know how anymore."
"Your hands remember," he said. "Even if your heart forgot."
Lyra's breath caught. There was something in the way he said it—like he was talking about more than just music.
Later that evening, she found herself digging out her old violin. Dust clung to the case like memory. Her fingers trembled as she lifted it, ran her hand along the polished wood.
Corin sat in the corner, eyes closed, just listening.
The first notes were broken, uncertain. Then smoother. Then deeper.
And as the melody rose, haunting and raw, Lyra realized she wasn't just playing for herself.
She was playing for a boy who had once been lost in fire.
For a girl who had stopped believing her voice mattered.
For the silence between them—now filled with music, and meaning.
When she finished, Corin didn't speak. He only stood, walked over, and gently touched her hand.
"I think," he said, "you just brought something back to life."
That night, they shared tea and old stories by the fire. No ghosts, no guilt. Just warmth. Just presence.
And when Lyra drifted off beside him, her head on his shoulder, Corin didn't move.
He just listened to the quiet rise and fall of her breath, like a song he never thought he'd hear again.