He’s forgotten that I’m next to him, probably forgotten that I’m in the room at all. I can tell because I see the difference in his demeanor. The way he’s shifted out of himself and into the song. The way he rocks his body into each note. All his usual harshness has melted away. Angles and lines disappear, revealing an unrecognizable face. One I have only seen the barest glimpses of before now. An expression so passionate that it makes me wonder what it would be like to kiss him. To do more than kiss. If he gives this much to his music, imagine what he could—

Um… scratch that thought.

He starts to play a different song, though it takes me a moment to notice as one song merges smoothly into the next like a rushing river flowing into a calm ocean. A familiar ocean. And though I don’t want to break the spell that’s been cast over the room, I’m so surprised that I say, “I know this song.”

“You must be mistaking it for something else,” Rafe responds, his attention never leaving the keys.

“No. I would never forget this.” My voice comes out dreamily because that is how this song makes me feel. It wraps me in a memory that smells of cinnamon cocoa and feels like cold cheeks and toes sticking out of a warm blanket. “My father used to play this for me when I was a child,” I say. It’s the same tune played by the music box beside my bed.

“That’s impossible.” The certainty of Rafe’s deceleration pulls me out of the warmth of my memory.

“Why?” I ask.

“This song was written by a Levite for meditative use by the Prophets of Naiot in order to help them achieve a prophetic state. There’s no way you could have ever heard it.” It amazes me how such sweet music can come from his fingers while such contempt drips from his voice.

“Whatever,” I respond. “Think what you like. I know what my father played for me.” I close my eyes, wanting to slip back into the song. I clasp my hands, rubbing my scars against each other. I won’t let Rafe’s music be ruined by his attitude.

But my words have angered Rafe, and his fingers bang down against the keys with a clang of sour notes. “I’m telling you, there’s no way ‘Yosef HaLevi’s Nocturne’ was your silly lullaby in the philistine world.”

I momentarily forget how to breathe. “What did you just say the composer’s name is?” I ask.

“Yosef HaLevi,” he drawls.

If I hadn’t spent the last few months constantly suppressing my reactions, I would never have been able to pull off the nonchalance that I achieve as I say, “You’re right. I must be mistaken.” But I know I’m not.