Tristan’s POV
The weight of the mahogany doors groaned behind me as I stepped into the grand auditorium, the air was thick with anticipation and the faint scent of polished wood and old velvet. The spotlights were dimmed, casting a low, amber glow over the stage where the orchestra was already gathering, and tuning their instruments. Soft murmurs bounced off the arched ceiling, and the occasional note from a violin or wind instrument lilted through the hush like a ghost searching for its place in the melody.
My eyes were instantly drawn to the piano that was situated center stage. A polished black Steinway, its lid lifted like an open mouth mid-aria. It glistened beneath the house lights, waiting for my hands, waiting for the story my fingers had yet to tell. I moved towards it slowly, the echo of my footsteps mingling with the soft clatter of bows and instrument cases.
I never thought that I would be able to touch a piano again after Estelle, but Elona was the one to bring this light to me, and now I am actually doing this, not just for us, but for closure and to move on from my grief. Elona was also occupying my thoughts like a second, quiet heartbeat. I didn’t like that she was still at VFS. I still don’t trust them, and even though she insisted she was going to handle it her way, I still wanted to help where I could, but I need to respect her wishes too. Her resilience both humbled and terrified me.
“Mr. Crane,” a soft voice interrupted. A woman in her late forties, shoulder-length gray-streaked hair tied back in a loose bun, approached me from the cello section. “I’m Lydia. It’s an honor to play alongside you. The arrangement this year is stunning.” I smiled politely, inclining my head. “Thank you. The honor’s mine.”
She chuckled and adjusted her shawl. “You’re not like most company executives I’ve seen try to squeeze into our world. You actually feel the music. It shows.”
“Maybe because it’s the only thing I can feel fully without needing to explain it,” I said, and realized too late how raw the words were.
Lydia’s expression softened, her eyes registering the pain beneath the polish. “That’s how the best music is made,” she said kindly. “Let it out. We’ll follow your lead.”
Before I could respond, the familiar buzz of my phone vibrated in the pocket of my jeans. I took the phone out of my pocket to check who it was.
Crane Project HQ
I frowned at the caller ID. “I apologize, but I need to take this,” I smiled politely and stepped offstage into the shadows of the wing, where the lighting dimmed into a wash of gray.
“Crane,” I answered, not sure why my company was calling me.
“Mr. Crane,” came the clipped voice of Jared Walters, one of the project managers leading our tech development department, “we’ve been trying to reach you. This is the fifth meeting you’ve rescheduled. The investors are getting frustrated and, to be honest, so am I.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “I’m aware of the delays, Jared.” I said with annoyance.
“With all due respect, this isn’t like you. You were hands-on and tireless, and now you’re…gone. Everyone’s asking where the hell you are. Some are questioning your commitment. This is Crane Industries. Your name is stamped on every corner of this project.”
I leaned against the cold wall of the auditorium, exhaling through my nose. “Let me tell you something. I buried myself in this company after my wife died. I turned every ounce of my grief into meetings and business plans...everything. I didn’t sleep much, I hardly went out. I didn’t even take vacations. I skipped lunch most times. I didn’t feel. Not until recently.”
A long pause crackled over the line. “I get that this project matters, but so do I... And so does healing from years of bleeding out inside while smiling in front of boardrooms. I need this space. If my stepping away for a short time threatens the integrity of this company, then maybe we built it wrong.”
Another silence.
“…I didn’t mean to come off disrespectful,” Jared muttered eventually. “It’s just...we miss your leadership.”
“You’ll get it back...soon,” I promised. “But I need time to breathe. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a performance to rehearse.” I hung up without waiting for a reply.
For a moment, I stood still in the dark wing, gripping the phone like it had betrayed me before I shoved it back into my pocket and stepped back into the warm light of the stage. The orchestra had begun to fall into place, the conductor at the podium flipping through his music sheet. Lydia gave me a soft smile as I approached the piano. I nodded at her, lowered myself onto the bench, and placed my hands over the keys.
The notes came hesitantly at first, like shaking off rust before they flowed, low and resonant, and then rising into the haunting melody we had planned. The conductor lifted his baton, and the strings joined in. For a while, I was lost, not in the pain and not in the guilt, but in this.
In the music.
It had always been my lifeline when I was young, even when I couldn’t find the words. Now, it was my anchor again. Each note reminded me of why I was still standing. For Estelle. For the babies lost. For Elona... especially for her.
The melody soared triumphantly and achingly. I pressed harder into the keys, letting the pain channel through the music like a storm through a broken dam. Every measure pulsed with memories. Elona’s laugh, her bruises, her faint smile in the hospital, her fire, and her courage.
When we reached the final note, silence swallowed the auditorium. My fingers trembled slightly over the keys. The conductor lowered his baton and turned to nod at me, and a few of the musicians clapped softly.
Lydia leaned over. “That,” she said gently, “was something you only play when your heart has been to war.”
I looked at her and then nodded once. “It has.”
I wasn’t done fighting.
Not for Elona.
Not yet.