The penthouse was shrouded in darkness, the city lights below offering the only illumination. Sophie couldn’t sleep. The silence of the house was oppressive, a physical weight that pressed down on her chest.
She wandered into the living room. There, in the corner, stood the grand piano–a dust sheet draped over it like a shroud. Isabella had told her William forbade music in the house because it reminded him of *her*.
Sophie pulled back the sheet. She sat on the bench. Her fingers, itching for the keys, moved instinctively. She played a nocturne–soft, melancholic, a song for the lost. It was the only way she knew how to process her guilt.
The elevator chimed softly.
Sophie froze, her hands hovering over the keys. She expected shouting. She expected to be fired.
She turned. William Croft stood in the entryway. He was still wearing his coat, his face pale and drawn from another eighteen-hour day at the architecture firm.
He stared at her. For a moment, in the dim light, Sophie thought he looked terrified. The music hung in the air between them.
“I… I’m sorry,” Sophie stammered, standing up quickly. “I didn’t think you were home. I’ll cover it up.”
William didn’t move. He looked at the piano, then at Sophie. For the first time in a year, the “Ice King” didn’t look angry. He looked exhausted.
“Don’t,” William said, his voice raspy. “Just… don’t stop.”
He walked past her toward the kitchen, leaving the permission hanging in the air. Sophie sat back down, her heart pounding, and played the next chord. The silence was broken.