I sat down, and I did play once. But it didn’t give me the closure I was hoping for. It gave me something else. And oddly enough, I think that thing was peace. Because I wasn’t doing it for anyone else. I was doing it for me. The music I wanted to play, how I wanted to play it.

I stayed up until the late hours that night, and it was only when I turned to leave that I caught Judge watching me. He seemed to be ensnared by the very sight of me. Moonlight poured in from the window, bathing my skin in an ethereal glow, and I imagine in many ways, it was like watching Frankenstein come alive. I felt alive for the first time in as long as I could remember, and Judge could see it too.

After that, new sheets of music started to appear. He didn’t demand anything from me. He didn’t even ask. But every night, when I would sneak down to play, I’d feel his presence behind me, watching me from the darkness. Inevitably, those sessions crept into my daylight hours too. And now, I find myself spending afternoons in front of the beautiful instrument. Judge will ask me to play something difficult, and I don’t deny him. I’m not sure why, but this feels like something special between us. Like a secret language. A gift.

This afternoon, when I hear his footsteps approaching somewhere between Moonlight Sonata and Gaspard de la nuit, I’m expecting him to throw me another challenge. He likes to do that, and secretly, I like to rise to meet them. But instead, when I glance over my shoulder, my fingers come to a halt on the keys, and I suck in a sharp breath.

It isn’t just Judge watching me today. Standing beside him is my brother, looking so melancholy it makes me want to cry. But there’s something else in his eyes. Something I can’t mistake for anything other than pride.

“Don’t stop,” he tells me. “Finish the song.”

I give him the tiniest of nods and turn to finish, giving the performance my all. Perhaps it’s my version of an apology. Perhaps I just need to know he still loves me. Regardless, when I finish, whatever it is I think I need from him is absent from his face.

“You came to see me?” I ask.

“Yes.” The softness disappears from his features, returning to stone. “I came to ask you about the aspirin you left in my wife’s room.”

“Aspirin?” I echo, trying to discern the meaning behind the question.

"Yes," he grits out. "The aspirin you gave her. The aspirin she used to try to kill herself and my child."

"Child?" My voice fractures, betrayal crawling beneath my skin like insects. "You... you got her pregnant?"