THE MUSIC OF US

Chapter Four

The music came again the next day.

At first, I thought I imagined it. The soft rise and fall of notes drifting through the air like a prayer. It began around the same hour as before, just after three in the afternoon, when the house settled into its usual stillness.

I stood in the middle of my study, frozen, listening.

It was gentle. Calm. Almost holy.

Handel’s “Hallelujah.”

The melody poured through the silence and filled the empty corners of the house. Every sound stirred the memories I had locked away. The plane. The fire. The smoke. The voice I had lost forever.

But this music felt different. It did not hurt. It healed.

I walked out of my study and followed the faint trail of sound down the corridor. My shoes made no noise against the marble floor. The melody led me toward the northern wing, near the old attic that no one visited anymore. But when I reached the stairs, it stopped.

Silence returned, heavy and complete.

I waited. Nothing. Only the ticking of the clock on the wall.

Was I losing my mind? Or had someone truly played that song?

I spent the rest of the evening in restless thought. The f*******n sound had awakened something in me, something I had buried long ago.

Margaret

She had discovered the attic by accident.

That morning, she had gone searching for old paintings to document. A narrow staircase had caught her attention, tucked behind a heavy curtain at the end of the west corridor. Dust filled the air as she climbed, and when she pushed the attic door open, she gasped.

There it was.

A grand piano. Its white and black keys hidden beneath a faded cloth, its wood worn by time and silence.

She stood before it for a long time, her heart racing.

She remembered the rule. No music. No sound.

But something about the piano called to her, soft and persistent, like an old friend whispering her name. She lifted the cloth gently and touched the keys. They were dusty and cold.

When she pressed one, it released a faint note, cracked but beautiful.

Her lips curved into a smile.

Louis

By the third day, the music had become part of the house. I did not know where it came from, and I no longer cared. I only knew that I looked forward to it.

The notes filled my afternoons with strange peace. The pain of silence began to soften.

One afternoon, as I worked, I caught a reflection in the window. Margaret was in the garden again, her white blouse bright against the green of the lawn. Her head was tilted as though she was listening to something only she could hear.

I found myself watching her often, almost unconsciously. Every movement of hers carried life. Every step reminded me of everything I had shut out for so long.

And yet, I knew I should have stopped.

The rules were not just for her. They were for me too.

Margaret

Every day after lunch, when the estate fell silent, she returned to the attic. She would close the door softly and uncover the piano. She began to clean it carefully, one key at a time, until the dust gave way to smooth ivory.

Then she played.

At first, the sound was faint, hesitant. But the moment her fingers found a familiar rhythm, the air changed. She could almost feel the house listening.

She played softly so that the notes would not travel far. The music was not meant to defy the rules. It was meant to fill a void.

In those moments, she forgot where she was. She forgot the rule she was breaking. She only remembered what it felt like to be alive.

But one afternoon, she felt something else.

A presence.

Someone was listening.

Louis

The music was louder that day.

I left my desk and walked through the corridor. The sound came from above. My heart pounded as I climbed the narrow staircase leading to the attic.

At the top, I paused. Through the half-open door, I saw her.

Margaret.

Her fingers danced across the piano keys, her eyes closed, her face lifted slightly as though she was lost in a world of her own. The sunlight poured through the small window, wrapping her in a soft glow.

For a moment, I could not move. The sight stole the air from my lungs.

She looked beautiful. Free. Alive.

The song ended with a whisper. Then she opened her eyes—and froze.

“Mr De Rosa…” Her voice trembled.

Mr John, who had followed behind me, appeared beside the door. His face was pale. “Miss Josemaria,” he said sharply, “you know the rule.”

She stood, her fingers still resting on the piano keys. “I am sorry,” she whispered. “I did not mean to—”

John turned to me, his expression grim. He knew what breaking the rule meant.

Eviction.

I stepped into the room slowly. Her eyes were wide, afraid, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. I could feel her fear like a pulse in the air.

I wanted to speak, to tell her it was all right, that I understood. But I could not. The words that should have been mine no longer existed.

She looked at me with tears forming in her eyes. “I am so sorry,” she said again.

I held her gaze for a long moment, then turned away.

Mr John sighed deeply. “Pack your things, Miss Josemaria.”

Her face crumpled, but she nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Margaret

She went back to her room and began to pack. Her hands trembled as she folded her clothes. Every object in the room felt like a memory she did not want to lose.

She placed the pink satin dress carefully into her suitcase and reached for the small box on the dresser. Inside it lay the pearl necklace he had given her before the dinner. She picked it up and stared at it for a long moment.

She wanted to keep it, but it felt wrong. It belonged to him.

She placed the box on the bed.

When she looked around one last time, her heart ached. She had not realized how much she had grown attached to this place. To the stillness. To the man who never spoke but whose silence had begun to mean something.

She decided she could not leave without saying goodbye.

She took the pearl box and walked toward his study.

Louis

I was standing by the window when I heard the knock. Three soft taps.

When I turned, she was already at the door, holding the small box in her hand. Her face was pale but calm.

“I came to return this,” she said quietly.

I did not move.

She stepped closer, placed the box on my desk, and turned to leave. Then she stopped, her hand on the doorknob.

“Goodbye, Mr De Rosa,” she whispered.

Something inside me broke.

Without thinking, I forced air through my throat. It burned, raw and painful, but the word came out, cracked and trembling.

“Do not go.”

She froze. Slowly, she turned to face me, disbelief in her eyes.

“You can talk,” she breathed.

I nodded weakly. My voice was a ghost, but it was mine.

She stepped closer, her hand covering her mouth. “All this time…”

I opened my laptop and began to type, my fingers shaking.

“It is a long story. Will you listen?”

She nodded. “I am all ears.”

I told her everything.

I told her about the plane crash, the fire, the screams, the pain, and the silence that followed. I told her how I had once loved music more than life itself, how I had been a singer, how the smoke had scarred my vocal cords and turned my gift into a curse.

When I finished, her eyes were full of tears.

“Life is not fair,” she whispered. “But maybe it can still be kind.”

She reached for her phone and called her father, speaking rapidly. I watched her face light up with sudden hope.

When she ended the call, she turned to me, breathless. “My father is a surgeon,” she said. “He is an ear, nose, and throat specialist. He says he has seen cases like yours. He believes he can help.”

I stared at her, not daring to believe it.

Hope. The word itself felt foreign on my tongue.

She smiled through her tears. “You might not sing again,” she said softly, “but you could speak. You could live again.”

For a moment, I could not breathe.

Then I typed.

“Tell him I am coming.”

That night, for the first time in ten years, I did not dream of silence.

I dreamed of a voice.

Mine.

And in the distance, Margaret was there, smiling through the music.