The car slows as we round the circular drive, tires whispering over the polished stone with a sound like silk tearing. I watch the Dravenhart Conservatory rise before me—a monument of marble and glass, shimmering under the afternoon sun. Its sharp edges catch the light like a blade, cold and brilliant. It is a perfect, pretentious structure, and in that way, it is unmistakably Celestine. She has always possessed a magnetic pull toward places that reflect her own shine, environments designed to amplify a singular, dazzling focus.
I built this place years ago. I commissioned every hall, every practice room, and every acoustic buffer because of a memory I could never quite shake. It was a ghost that haunted my college years—a girl I once heard play when I was still in school. I never saw her
