THE MUSIC OF US

Chapter Two

The rain had just stopped when she arrived.

The air smelled like wet grass and quiet beginnings, though I had long stopped believing in them.

That morning, Mr John had reminded me that our guest would be coming today.

The scholar.

The woman who wrote the letter.

I gave no thought to it. People came and went. They were polite at first, curious about the estate, eager to study its history. But eventually, the silence pressed too hard against their comfort, and they always left.

I left the estate with Mr John for yet another of my grandmother’s arranged introductions. Another waste of time. By the time we returned in the evening, the sky was clear again, and the gravel path glistened under the fading light.

The moment I stepped through the front doors, I saw her.

She was seated quietly in the living room, her back straight, her robe soft and floral against the muted tones of the estate. She rose the instant she saw us, smiling politely.

“Good evening,” she said. Her voice was calm and warm.

Mr John stopped mid-step, startled. “Who are you?”

“I am Josemaria,” she replied.

He frowned. “Josemaria? We were expecting a man.”

She adjusted her large glasses nervously, though her smile did not fade. “Oh, I am Margaret Josemaria,” she explained. “I am the researcher who wrote to the De Rosa estate.”

I stood still, my coat still on, watching her.

Our eyes met for the first time, and for a moment, I saw curiosity and calm intelligence reflected there. She looked at me as if waiting for something, perhaps a greeting. I said nothing.

The silence between us stretched thin, delicate, and strange. Then, without a word, I turned and walked upstairs to my study.

Behind me, I heard Mr. John clear his throat. “Please, have a seat, Miss Josemaria. I will return shortly.”

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When he came to my study a few minutes later, I was seated at my desk. I typed a short note on the screen before me and handed it to him.

“She can stay. Give her the guest quarters. Explain the house rules clearly. No noise, no music, no direct communication with me unless necessary. All correspondence goes through you.”

He nodded and left. I sat there for a long while after he closed the door, listening to the faint sound of movement below. A stranger was in my house, a woman whose name felt too alive for these quiet walls.

That night, I tried to work but could not focus. The sound of my typing felt louder than usual. I kept thinking about her face, the way she smiled without expectation. Most visitors wore forced politeness when they met me. Hers had been real.

I stood by the window, watching the mist thicken over the gardens. Somewhere in the distance, I heard a door close. Her door, perhaps. I wondered if she would last more than a few days. I doubted it.

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The next morning, I woke early. The house was still, the light outside pale and cold. I went for a walk through the gardens before sunrise. When I returned to the study, I glanced through the window and saw her again.

She stood near the fountain, her notebook open, sketching with quick and graceful movements. The sun caught the side of her face, and for the first time, I noticed how striking she was in her simplicity. There was something unhurried about her, something peaceful.

I should have looked away. I did not.

Each morning that week, I found myself glancing toward the gardens. I would see her walking, writing, bending to examine a sculpture. She always seemed lost in her thoughts, her calm presence drawing life back into the quiet corners of the estate.

Sometimes, she wore earplugs, small and pale against her dark hair. Perhaps she listened to music. The thought unsettled me. Music was f*******n here. Yet she never played anything aloud, never disturbed the peace. She followed the rules.

Her quiet obedience began to disturb me in ways I could not name.

By the end of the week, Sunday arrived.

Mr John entered my study with a smile that morning. “It is Sunday, sir. The day you host breakfast for any guest in residence.”

I had almost forgotten. It was a family tradition, one I had allowed to fade over time. I nodded reluctantly.

When she entered the breakfast room, I was already seated. She wore a simple white blouse and a long skirt. Her hair was loose at the back, and she carried herself with quiet confidence.

“Good morning, Mr De Rosa,” she said softly.

I inclined my head in greeting. She seemed unsure whether to speak again. Remembering the rules, she stayed silent.

The meal passed in near silence, broken only by the sound of cutlery and the soft clink of china. When she reached to pour tea into my cup, her hand brushed mine. For a moment, I looked up.

She smiled. It was a small, natural smile, and it reached her eyes.

Without realizing it, I smiled back. It was the smallest movement, but her eyes widened slightly as if she had just witnessed a miracle.

That was the first time I had smiled at anyone in years.

When breakfast ended, she thanked me and excused herself. I sat alone for a long time, staring at the teacup she had poured Something about her presence lingered. It unsettled me. It also soothed me.

That afternoon, as I sat in my study, I heard something faint.

A sound that did not belong in my world.

It was soft at first, almost uncertain, like the memory of a song I once knew. I froze, listening. The sound grew clearer, a gentle tune carried through the air.

Music.

It could not be.

I stood and walked to the door. The melody was light, delicate, and hauntingly beautiful. I knew it too well. Handel’s “Hallelujah.”

My chest tightened. The sound of music had been f*******n in this house for ten years. I had banned it myself.

I opened the door and stepped into the hallway. The sound faded. For a moment, I thought I imagined it. Then I heard it again, distant but unmistakable.

It drifted through the walls like a ghost of my past.

When it finally stopped, I stood in the silence, my heart beating hard.

I returned to my desk, my fingers trembling slightly as I placed them on the keyboard. I typed slowly, unsure if I was asking a question or confessing something I could not yet face.

“Where is it?”

The words stared back at me from the screen. I did not know if I meant the sound, the memory, or the strange feeling now stirring inside me.

All I knew was that for the first time in years, silence no longer felt safe.

It felt alive.