The bell of the vintage music shop in Brooklyn chimed softly. Marcus Thorne guided the woman he called “Elena” through the aisles of instruments. He told himself he was helping her recover, but deep down, he knew he was testing the limits of the ghost living inside her.
“Look around,” Marcus said gently. “See if anything speaks to you.”
Elena wandered past the guitars and drums, looking detached. Then, she stopped in front of a glass case holding a violin. Her breath hitched.
“May I?” she asked the shopkeeper.
She tucked the instrument under her chin with a practiced, fluid motion that made Marcus’s heart stop. She closed her eyes and drew the bow across the strings. The melody that poured out was mournful and technically perfect–a complex concerto that required years of training.
The shop went silent. Elena played the final note, then opened her eyes. She stared at her hands as if they belonged to a stranger.
“I don’t know that song,” she whispered, her voice trembling with fear. “Why do my hands know things I don’t?”
She shoved the violin back into Marcus’s hands, backing away. “Take me home. Please.”
Marcus hid the devastation in his eyes. He wrapped an arm around her, leading her out. “It’s okay, Elena. It’s just muscle memory. You’re safe.” He was protecting her from the world, but mostly, he was hiding her from the man who was currently planning a wedding in Manhattan.