Chapter 9: A Softer Song
866 Words
The echoes of applause from the spring concert had long faded, but something inside Elara hadn’t quieted. It wasn’t about validation or winning—it was the way the stage had felt beneath her feet, solid and grounding, the way her own music had unfolded without apology. For the first time in years, she had played for herself. That feeling, that fierce reclaiming of her identity, lingered.
The following week, she returned to the music building with new energy. Her fingers itched to write, to improvise, to chase the feeling that the concert had reawakened. The practice rooms, once intimidating, now felt like a second home.
That was when she saw the sign-up sheet outside Practice Room 3.
Spring Duet Program – Partner assignments now posted.
She scanned the list out of curiosity, not expecting to see her name. But there it was, next to someone she didn’t know:
Elara Morgan & Leo Ashcroft
Her heart did a curious little flip.
Leo Ashcroft.
The name sounded faintly familiar, like a melody half-remembered. She hadn't met him before, but the surname was known—Ashcroft Hall was named after a prominent donor, and perhaps Leo was part of that family. It didn’t matter, she told herself. This wasn’t about names or legacies. This was music.
Their first meeting was scheduled for Friday afternoon.
Friday came with spring wind and the soft smell of new grass. Elara arrived early, already seated at the baby grand in Room 3, flipping through sheet music when the door opened.
Leo entered with a polite smile and a canvas music bag slung over his shoulder.
He was tall—taller than she expected—with warm hazel eyes and a calm demeanor that reminded her of early morning sun. His wavy, light brown hair fell just enough into his eyes to make him look thoughtful but not disheveled. He didn’t rush to speak, only nodded as he set his things down.
“Hi,” he said simply. “I’m Leo. You must be Elara.”
“I am,” she replied, standing to shake his hand.
His grip was warm, firm, but not forceful. It matched the calm he seemed to carry with him like a second skin.
“I listened to your performance last week,” he said as they sat down on the shared bench. “Your piece stayed with me.”
She blinked. “You were at the concert?”
He nodded. “I was scheduled later that evening in a different hall. But I arrived early and caught your set. It was... honest. Raw.”
Elara wasn’t sure what to say. No one had described her music like that before.
“Thanks,” she said finally. “That means a lot.”
They started with a simple Mozart arrangement, chosen by their faculty mentor for the program’s first round. The first few minutes were stiff—timing off, notes colliding. She played faster than him; he was more deliberate. But something interesting happened around the second page.
He adjusted.
Without a word, Leo began to match her tempo. His left hand softened, allowing her melody to rise. She noticed and responded in kind, relaxing into the rhythm, their sounds gradually aligning. By the end of the piece, they were playing like a single thought split between four hands.
They paused.
Leo laughed softly. “Not bad for a first attempt.”
Elara smiled. “You’re easy to play with.”
“Only in piano,” he said, deadpan, then immediately blushed. “That sounded less awkward in my head.”
She laughed. “Don’t worry. I’ll pretend I didn’t hear it.”
Their sessions became the highlight of her week.
Leo always arrived with marked-up sheet music, sometimes with notes scribbled in different colors. He brought tea—earl grey for her, peppermint for himself. Sometimes he brought fruit. He never commented when she arrived frazzled from class, or tired, or quiet. He simply sat beside her, opened the music, and played.
He asked her about her compositions, listened without interrupting, and once even offered to help transcribe a difficult bridge she’d been stuck on.
One afternoon, as rain pattered against the windows, they played a Liszt piece that had terrified her since childhood. With Leo beside her, the intimidating chords became manageable, even graceful. She made a mistake halfway through—missed a note—and flinched.
But Leo didn’t stop.
He kept playing, adjusted his harmony to compensate, and gave her the softest smile.
“Keep going,” he mouthed.
And she did.
The days that followed blurred gently into each other. The rhythm of practice sessions became a kind of sanctuary. On campus, Elara still carried her usual burdens—assignments, group presentations, and occasional awkward encounters with Rowan—but once she entered Room 3, the world outside paused.
One Friday, they arrived at the same time, both carrying matching paper bags from the same coffee shop.
“You’ve got good taste,” Leo said, noticing they had both ordered hazelnut lattes.
“Or you’re secretly copying me,” she teased.
“That would require stealth. And I’m way too clumsy for that.”
- Writer
