CHAPETER 3
1177 Words
“Music expresses that which cannot be said in words, but cannot remain silent.” - Victor Hugo
They walked in silence, the sort that doesn’t weigh heavy but settles gently between two people who’ve begun to understand each other. The quad stretched around them, cloaked in moonlight and the soft rustle of trees. Then Alba spoke, her voice cutting through the quiet like a gentle breeze.
“What instrument do you play, Emi?”
Emi. The name lingered in his mind, and his smile was almost audible.
“I play sax,” he said, his tone light. “Though my mum always says it’s an instrument of seduction—not elegant or refined like the violin, for example.”
Alba tilted her head slightly, sensing something beneath the humour.
“I reckon if I’d told them I was going to be a violinist or a cellist, they’d have reacted differently,” he added, half to himself. “Did you always want to be a pianist?”
She paused, as if reaching back through time to gather the threads of something precious.
“No, not always,” she said, her voice soft but steady. “Music used to be my bolt-hole, proper lifesaver some days. A place where I could be myself without fear or judgement. Over time, it became my voice—the way I say everything I can’t put into words.”
A silence fell, and Emil didn’t dare interrupt it. Then she continued, quieter now.
“It was a complicated time in my life. But now, music… it’s more than a passion. It’s part of who I am.”
Her words lingered in the air, and Emil nodded, feeling the weight of them settle in his chest. It was exactly how he felt about music—like it wrapped around him when the world didn’t make sense, a quiet refuge that never asked questions.
He glanced towards the music room they’d left behind.
“That piece you were playing earlier… it was beautiful.”
Alba’s face lit up, and her voice danced with enthusiasm.
“Oh! That’s ‘Idea 10’ by Alcocer. He’s a young Mexican composer. Wanted to be a graphic designer, but uni was too pricey, so he started selling his own stuff—made it all on an electric piano in his bedroom. Blew up online. Gibrán Alcocer... that’s him.”
She laughed, sensing Emil’s surprise.
“Were you expecting some eighteenth-century maestro?
Bit of Mozart or Chopin?”
“Truth be told… you surprised me. Again...” he said, the last word barely above a whisper.
“Heard it on t****k and—pffft—it blew my mind,” she said, miming an explosion with her hands.
Emil laughed.
“It’s all about duality, innit? Light and dark, that internal tug-of-war we all go through. Well... that’s how it hits me, anyway. No clue what he was feeling when he wrote it. But Alcocer—he’s proper brilliant at weaving emotion into melody. Every note feels like a step closer to figuring yourself out.”
Emil listened, captivated. For Alba, music wasn’t just sound. It was story. It was soul.
They reached a bench and sat, the night folding around them like a blanket. Alba placed her cane between them—a quiet symbol of closeness and space. Then she turned, one leg bent on the bench, facing him fully. Her hands tugged at the cuffs of her lime green jumper, a gesture that spoke of nerves and resolve.
Emil watched her, trying to memorise every detail. The moonlight barely touched her face, but he saw the soft turbidity in her eyes—impossible to read their colour. Emerald green? Hazel? Her skin was pale, scattered with freckles that whispered of her fiery red-haired heritage—hair like a blaze, impossible to ignore. Her nose, delicate and defined, led to full lips tinted with a reddish-orange hue. He looked at them with quiet admiration, not just for their beauty, but for the strength they held.
When she smiled, her teeth seemed to light up the space around her. The world felt warmer. Safer.
He was so lost in her that he almost missed her question.
“Emi…”
Her voice was clear, but his silence left her wondering.
“Sorry,” he said, startled. “I was… lost in thought.”
“Aren’t you curious about my blindness?”
There was no reproach in her tone. Just openness.
Emil nodded, serious now.
“Of course I am. I just didn’t want to be rude. It’s just… I don’t see it when I look at you. You move with such confidence, such ease…” He hesitated, then added, “I do wonder what it’s like for you—what you feel, how you manage it every day.”
Alba smiled, touched by his honesty.
“It wasn’t always like this. I wasn’t born blind. But now it’s part of me. Like music is. I’ve learnt to see the world differently—through sound, scent, texture…”
Emil was rather taken aback. He hadn’t expected that. Not in the slightest.
“In the music room, I caught your scent—it was there alongside Professor August’s, but definitely different. And yeah, it’s a bit of a challenge sometimes. Still, it’s made me notice things I’d never have clocked before.”
“I understand,” Emil said quietly. “Can I ask… how did it happen?”
Alba took a breath, steadying herself.
“It was an accident. At school. Chemistry lab. One of those moments that changes everything.” Her voice was calm, but the memory was sharp. “There was a reaction we didn’t calculate. An explosion. I wasn’t wearing safety goggles. Glass shattered. Some of it hit my eyes.”
Emil’s face was stricken.
“Bloody hell… that must’ve been awful.”
“It was,” she said simply. “The doctors called it
traumatic leukoma. The glass damaged both corneas, right in the pupils. They turned opaque. Despite everything they tried… I lost my sight. I was fourteen.”
“How did you cope?” he asked, taking her hand.
“At first? Nah, I didn’t cope. I was a wreck. Proper angry—mostly at myself, really. My family pulled me through. Lost mates along the way, though… I was a nightmare, if I’m honest. But then—music. Music saved me. Gave me a way back.”
Emil was silent, moved beyond words.
“You’re incredible, Alba,” he said softly. “I can’t imagine what you went through. But you’ve turned it into something powerful. Every note you play… it’s like a defiance against the dark.”
Alba smiled, serene.
“We all have our stories, Emi. This is just mine.”
And as the night deepened, so did their conversation—two souls sharing truths, finding connection in the quiet spaces between words. The moon watched over them, and the breeze carried their voices like a lullaby.
They weren’t just talking.
They were beginning.
- Writer
