The morning sun filtered through the heavy velvet curtains of the penthouse’s west wing–the wing William Croft had avoided for over a year. He stood in the doorway of the music room, a cup of coffee in his hand, feeling a strange lightness in his chest. The success of the Gala and the warmth of Sophie’s hand in his had shifted the tectonic plates of his grief.
“William?” Sophie appeared behind him, looking hesitant. “I can leave if you want to be alone.”
“No,” William said, stepping into the room. Dust motes danced in the air above the grand piano where Victoria used to compose. For months, this room had been a mausoleum, a shrine to a ghost. “I need your help.”
He walked to the shelf lined with her awards and framed sheet music. “A conservatory is a place for music to live,” William said, his voice steady. “This room… this is just a place for silence. It’s time to pack it up.”
Sophie’s eyes widened. “Are you sure?”
“I can’t live in a museum anymore, Sophie,” William turned to her. “Help me. Please.”
Together, they began the slow, bittersweet work of disassembly. They wrapped the platinum records in bubble wrap. They placed the handwritten lyrics of “The Serpent’s Coil” into archival boxes. With every item cleared, the room felt less like a tomb and more like a space waiting for a new future. It was a physical dismantling of the past, and with every box taped shut, William felt himself stepping further away from the “Ice King” and closer to the man Sophie saw.