Chapter 20: To the Music Room (2)
Celestia's POV
Celestia Silveria Van Lumina walked alone down the quiet marble halls of the academy, her footsteps so light they barely made a sound, like she was afraid the echo might give away the shake in her chest. The soft blue glow from the mana lamps touched her white hair, making it shine like fresh snow in faint light, and the sun coming through the big windows threw long, warm stripes on the floor ahead—gold and soft, like the world was trying to cheer her up but missing the mark. Far off, she could hear other students moving around—kids her age laughing easy about dumb stuff like who got the best dorm view or what the food would taste like, that normal buzz of starting school after the scary raid on the train. It sounded so simple, so full of life, like nothing bad had touched them. But here, in this empty side hall where fewer people came, everything felt too still, too big, like the walls were listening to her heart pound too loud.
She didn't plan this. Not one bit. When she'd left him a few minutes ago, after that awkward sorry that hung in the air like bad weather—thick and hard to shake—she'd told herself that was it. Head back to her dorm room, unpack her bag with those fancy clothes her maids had folded just so, stare out the window at the gardens until the knot in her stomach loosened. Pretend like she could slip back into being the princess everyone expected: all straight-backed and smiling, the perfect First Princess of the Lumina Empire, who didn't let feelings mess up her day. It should've ended right there—one last try to fix something that broke way before she could reach for it, like gluing a cup after the spill's already dried.
But her feet kept going. Pulled her after him, quiet and sure, like they knew a secret her head hadn't caught up to yet. Her gloved hands twisted together in front of her, fingers digging into the soft white leather, and she could feel the cool metal of her rings pressing hard into her skin. Why? Why couldn't she just let him walk away, fade into the crowd like he seemed to want? The hall's air felt cooler now, carrying that faint, clean smell of stone and old books from the nearby library, but it did nothing to ease the heat building behind her eyes.
"It's not fair," she said under her breath, her voice cracking a little, so soft it got swallowed by the empty space. She stopped for a second, leaning one hand against the wall—cool marble under her palm, smooth as a promise that wouldn't hold—and closed her eyes tight. Not fair that she remembered it all, every single bit: the way his laugh used to light up a room, rough but real, like gravel mixed with sunlight; the fights that left them both yelling, hearts pounding, but ending with her in his arms anyway; the quiet nights when he'd pull her close and whisper things that made her feel like the whole empire could wait outside. Not fair that she carried the hurt like a stone in her pocket, heavy every step, the empty spot where he used to be—while he looked at her like she was just some girl he passed in the hall, someone who didn't matter enough to stick in his mind.
The Goddess of Fate and Time had told her straight, her voice like wind through old trees, before Celestia turned back time—rewound the wheel with tears on her cheeks and a prayer that fate might bend just once.
"When you see him again, he won't be the same guy. The fire that used to light him up inside? It'll be cold ashes by then."
Celestia had nodded back then, chin up high, thinking she could handle it—strong enough to face whatever changes came, maybe even fix the breaks she'd helped make. She'd imagined him older in spirit, quieter maybe, but still with that spark in his eyes, that look that said he saw her, really saw her, past the crown and the title. But this Lucian—this quiet, empty version who stared through her like fog on a window—wasn't just different. He wasn't holding back or playing hard to get. He was... gone inside. Like the part of him that cared, that fought back, that loved hard and messy... had walked away and left the shell behind, walking around on auto without him.
She pressed a hand to her chest as she turned another corner, feeling her heart thump hard under the stiff fabric of her uniform—too fast, too loud, like it was trying to tell her something her brain wouldn't listen to. "I thought he'd be... I don't know, grown up more. Quiet, maybe, but still him," she mumbled, words barely coming out, like they hurt to push past her throat. "Like the raid shook him, made him think twice about being so alone. But this... this isn't being cold. It's like he's forgotten how to feel anything at all. Like the world's just noise to him now."
Her voice got stuck there, throat tight and burning. She could still see his eyes from earlier—black and deep, like looking down a well that had no bottom, no light at the end. That wasn't him brushing her off. It was him not even seeing her. Not the princess, not the girl he'd once fought for—just empty space where she used to fit. Her free hand came up, fingers brushing her lips where she'd bitten them earlier, tasting salt from a tear that slipped free without asking. Why did it hurt this bad? Why did it feel like losing him all over again, when he was right there, breathing the same air?
And still, she followed. Past the long straight hall with its sunny windows that made the floor look like a river of light, past the spots where dust danced lazy in the beams like they had all the time in the world, until she got to the west corridor—the one nobody much used anymore, tucked away like a forgotten story. The air changed here, cooler and stiller, carrying that old, dusty smell of wood and paper from rooms left alone too long. There, she stopped short, breath catching quick in her chest.
Lucian was at the end, hand on an old brass knob that looked worn from years of folks coming and going quiet—dull spots where thumbs had rubbed it smooth. The Music Room.
Her breath hitched, quick and sharp, like she'd run a mile without moving. Of course. Even now, even after everything, he went there. Her heart squeezed hard as old pictures flooded back—those late nights from their past life, when she'd sneak close and watch him play, hidden just out of sight behind a half-open door or a stack of books. Back then, his music had life in it. It was bright, full of laughs and that soft hope like spring coming early—notes jumping light, pulling her in even when she tried to stay mad. Now, as the door creaked open slow under his hand, the sound that slipped out was something else.
Slow. Sad. Like a song that missed someone who'd left for good, notes dragging heavy, full of all the want that wouldn't let go.
Celestia stayed frozen just outside the door, one hand flat on the wall to hold herself up—the stone cool under her palm, grounding her when her legs felt like water. She couldn't move, couldn't breathe right, her fingers digging into the marble a little harder, nails scraping faint. The music came through the crack in the door, soft at first, then wrapping around her like a chill wind that knew her name.
Each note came out like a let-out breath—a quiet hurt wrapped in pretty sound, carrying all the want and gone that words couldn't touch. It wasn't fast or showy; it rolled slow, like a river carrying leaves downstream, sad but beautiful in how it didn't try to hide the ache. The low parts hummed deep, filling her chest with that heavy pull, the high bits lifting just enough to break your heart before dropping back. It told about holding on to something sweet that sticks around only long enough to leave you missing it more—about days that feel good but fade fast, leaving you with just the memory and a quiet that hurts.
Tears stung her eyes, hot and quick, blurring the door's edge, but she blinked them back hard, swallowing the lump rising in her throat like it was glass. Her free hand came up slow, fingers brushing her lips where she'd bitten them earlier, tasting the faint salt of one tear that slipped free anyway. Why did it hit like this? Why did his playing feel like it was pulling at strings she thought she'd cut loose?
"Lucian..." she breathed, so soft it barely made it out, her voice getting lost in the melody's pull.
Through the crack in the door—just wide enough for a sliver of light and sound—she could see him sitting there: white hair shining a bit in the sun from the room's windows, falling loose around his face like it didn't care about being neat; fingers moving over the keys smooth and sure, like they knew every bump and turn by heart, left hand holding the low parts steady while right chased the tune higher. His face stayed blank, no smile or frown to give anything away, shoulders straight but easy, like the music was the only thing in the room with him. But the song gave him away, pouring out what words wouldn't—sad and pretty, full of that missing feeling that sticks in your chest like a cold wind on a clear day.
Celestia pressed her hand to her mouth harder, trying to quiet the shake starting in her fingers, the way her breath hitched with every long note. "Even now... even when your heart's all broke... you still play like you're trying to remember how love felt. Like you're holding on to something that's gone, but won't let go of the sound."
The song kept going, rolling through its parts—low and warm in the verses, building just enough in the repeats to tug at you, then easing back like it knew not to push too hard. The room's light shifted a little as the sun moved, catching the side of his face for a second, showing the line of his jaw tight, eyes half-shut like he was listening to something only he could hear. It made her chest hurt more, that mix of beautiful and broke, the way the notes wrapped around the empty spots inside her too.
The music faded at last, notes trailing off slow—one by one, hanging soft in the air like they didn't want to leave, then letting go into nothing. The quiet after felt big, full of what the song had said without saying it.
And in that empty quiet after, she got it—really got it, deep down where thoughts don't use words.
The Lucian sitting there wasn't the same guy she'd loved in their past life. That one had fire, laughs that pulled you in, eyes that saw you like you were the only thing worth looking at. This one... he was what's left when the fire goes out and the wind blows the ashes away.
But somewhere way down in that quiet empty... a piece of him still hung on. Like an echo in a big room, faint but there if you listened close. It wasn't much, but it was enough to make her stand there longer, hand on the wall, tears slipping slow down her cheek now without asking.
The door stayed cracked, light spilling out soft, and the music room held its breath, waiting for whatever came next.