Louise woke at six in the morning, seized by an intense urge—she had to paint. Not the scribbles of a child with crayons, but real painting, the way her mother did in her studio. She climbed out of bed, bare feet touching the cold floor, and ran to the living room, rummaging through Scarlett’s art box for charcoal pencils and sketch paper.
Kneeling before the coffee table, small hand wrapped around the charcoal, she closed her eyes. Behind her eyelids, in the darkness, images bloomed sharp and clear: a quiet, dark forest—moonlight filtering through the gaps in the leaves, a piano standing in the center of the woods, its keys pressing themselves, playing a sad, beautiful melody she had never heard before.
Beside the piano stood a figure, back turned to her. Robed, with short hair, shoulde
