The Song of the Forgotten

Prologue A lone melody drifted through the silent streets of the village. It was faint, almost a whisper against the cool evening air, but it carried with it something timeless—a sorrowful tune that seemed to remember a past long buried. Emilie did not know why the sound made her stop in the middle of the cobbled path. She was carrying a book under one arm, the evening’s last light catching the gold-embossed title, though she barely noticed. Her breath hitched, and her heartbeat quickened. She had heard that melody before. But where? She shut her eyes, trying to follow the fragile thread of memory unravelling inside her. Images fluttered at the edge of her mind—shadows of places she could not name, faces she could not place. The music was a key, but the door it unlocked remained just out of reach. The tune faded. The street was quiet again, the hush of twilight settling over the village of Saint-Rémy. It was a quiet place, a forgotten corner of France where nothing much happened. Emilie had lived here for as long as she could remember—which, in truth, was not very long at all. Her past was a blank canvas, with only the faintest traces of something that had been painted over and lost. She took a deep breath and turned toward the old music hall. The building had been abandoned for years, its wooden shutters sagging, its once-grand entrance now nothing more than a relic of a time gone by. And yet, something about it called to her. Stepping forward, she pushed against the heavy doors. They groaned in protest before finally giving way. The scent of dust and aged wood filled the air, and the last rays of sunlight slanted through the broken windows, casting long shadows over the empty stage. At the centre of it, stood an old grand piano. The sight of it sent a tremor through her chest. It was nothing more than an instrument, and yet... she felt as though it knew her as if the worn keys had been touched by her hands before. Hesitantly, she approached. The silence in the hall was thick, pressing against her ears. Then, as though moved by an unseen force, her fingers drifted to the piano. She pressed a single key. A note rang out, pure yet slightly out of tune. She tried another. And then another. A melody formed, uncertain at first, but then it began to take shape. Her hands knew the notes before her mind did as if they were tracing an echo of something long forgotten. And then, all at once, it stopped. She pulled her hands back as a sharp pain flared in her temples. A flash— A ballroom, golden light shimmering off crystal chandeliers. A man’s voice, warm and deep, whispering a name—her name—close to her ear. Laughter, music, the rustle of silk. And then—darkness. A train whistle. A name called out in desperation. The vision faded as quickly as it had come, leaving her breathless. Emilie pressed a trembling hand to her chest. She did not know what she had just seen. She did not know why the melody brought a wave of sadness that clung to her bones. But she did know one thing. This song was hers. And somehow, it held the key to everything she had forgotten. Chapter 1: The Returning Soldier The train rattled along the tracks, a steady, rhythmic sound that filled the dimly lit compartment. David stared out of the window, his reflection a shadow against the darkened countryside. The war had ended, but its echoes had not. It lingered in the hollows beneath his eyes, in the way his hands trembled when he reached for a cigarette, in the silence that stretched between each breath. He had been gone for so long that the idea of returning to anything resembling a life felt foreign. Paris had once been home, but now, even the thought of its crowded streets and lively cafés filled him with an odd kind of dread. The war had taken more than just his time—it had stolen pieces of him that he wasn’t sure he’d ever reclaim. Instead, he was travelling south, to the countryside, where the world moved slower, and the ghosts were fewer. Saint-Rémy was not a place of grandeur. It was a village that had stood untouched by time, where the past lingered in the worn stones of its buildings and the narrow, winding streets. He had no ties there, no reason to go—only a restless feeling that had guided him onto the train. The train pulled into the small station, hissing as it came to a stop. David stepped onto the platform, adjusting the strap of his bag. The air smelled of damp earth and woodsmoke, and for a moment, he simply stood there, letting the quiet seep into him. A porter passed by, casting him a curious glance. David was used to it by now—the way people looked at returning soldiers, measuring the weight they carried, wondering what they had seen. He ignored it and made his way toward the only inn in the village, a modest establishment nestled between a boulangerie and a tailor’s shop. The woman at the front desk barely glanced up as he signed the register. “You’ll want the room at the end of the hall,” she said, sliding him a key. “Quiet there.” He nodded in thanks and climbed the narrow staircase. The room was small but clean, with a simple bed against the wall and a writing desk by the window. He dropped his bag onto the chair and sank onto the edge of the bed, rubbing his face with both hands. Silence. It should have been a relief after years of gunfire and shouting, but instead, it pressed against him, heavy and thick. He reached into his bag, pulling out the one thing that had remained constant—the small leather-bound notebook filled with pages of unfinished music. David had been a pianist before the war. A composer. Music had once been his language, the way he understood the world. But now, it was fractured, the melodies slipping away before he could grasp them. He opened the notebook, staring at the unfinished bars of music, the notes hesitant and incomplete. He needed to play. The thought struck him suddenly, a craving he hadn’t felt in a long time. Music had always been his refuge, and perhaps, if he could find a piano, he could reclaim even the smallest piece of himself. Pushing to his feet, he left the inn and stepped into the village streets. The evening was settling in, the lamps casting golden pools of light onto the cobblestones. He walked without direction, letting instinct guide him, until he found himself standing before an old music hall. It was abandoned. The wooden shutters hung loose, the once-grand entrance worn by time. But something about it called to him. He pushed the doors open and stepped inside. The scent of dust and age filled his lungs. The room was empty, save for the piano at the centre of the stage. David approached it slowly, his pulse quickening. He had played on grand stages before, under the glow of chandeliers, in front of crowds that held their breath with every note. But now, standing before this forgotten instrument in an empty hall, he felt something stir within him. He sat down, fingers hovering over the keys. He pressed one. Then another. The sound was slightly out of tune, but the weight of the keys beneath his hands was familiar. He let his fingers move, hesitantly at first, then with more certainty. A melody took shape—one he had never played before, yet one that felt like it had always existed. It was soft, haunting, filled with longing. He closed his eyes, letting the music carry him, filling the space around him with something that had been lost. And then— A sound. A quiet gasp, barely audible. David turned sharply, his hands stilling on the keys. In the dim light, standing near the entrance, was a woman. She stared at him, wide-eyed, as if she had seen a ghost. Or perhaps—as if she had heard something she had once known.