Notes of a forgotten past

Liora's POV He takes a step closer and I take one back. Then another. And another, until the cold wall presses flat against my spine and there is nowhere left to go. Dante Moretti is standing close enough that I can see the tension in his jaw, and the way his gaze stays fixed on mine like he is seeing something I couldn't see myself. "Stop running from me," he says quietly. "I'm not running." "You've been running since the night of the gala." I lift my chin. "You don't know me well enough to say that." "I know you better than you think." His voice drops lower. "And that's what's scaring you." He's right. That's exactly what's scaring me. Because men like Dante Moretti are not supposed to feel familiar. They are not supposed to look at you like you are a song they already know the words to. They are not supposed to make your hands forget how to play for the first time in your life. He reaches into his jacket slowly, never breaking eye contact, and places something against my palm. A photograph. Old. Worn at the edges. A birthday celebration warmth and light and laughter frozen in faded colour. And in the corner of the frame, a girl of fifteen at a piano. Me. A photograph I pressed into a boy's hands seven years ago and told him to keep forever. A boy who was dragged out of that same room that same night while I sat frozen behind that piano and couldn't even scream. My eyes lift to his. "Where did you get this," I breathe shakily. Dante doesn't flinch. "It was sewn into the coat I was wearing," he says, "the night they took me."