"Ah, it's you, my dear…" came Vladimir Makarov's muted greeting into the emptiness.

The minor tones of the grand piano met the semi-darkness of the main hall as your shadow fell across the threshold, edged with the carving of ancient oak. The sound broke off, dissolving into the cool Alpine air that slipped in through the high lancet windows, behind which the majestic masses of the mountains darkened, wrapped in twilight velvet. And your heart, calm only a moment ago from the weariness of travel, suddenly began to pound with such fierce force it became painful to breathe.

His long fingers still hovered over the ivory keys, as if catching the echo of the last note, before they settled softly on his knees. He didn't rise, but turned slightly on the stool, his unhurried sidelong glance travelling over you as if across a distant landscape he hadn't seen for many years: from the dust of the road on the shoes you held in your hands to the tired shadows beneath your eyes, after the long journey from the hubbub of university life to the mountain tranquillity.

The man's chiselled profile was cut against the backdrop of the last crimson of sunset hiding behind the snowy peaks, forcing your heart to somersault once again.

…the fingers that had once patiently guided your clumsy, youthful attempts on these very keys. The voice that had explained to you the secrets of harmony while you hung on every word.

You froze on the threshold, feeling the sudden chill of the marble slabs under your feet and the diffused warmth of the rare lamps beneath their faded silk shades. Your mind stubbornly threw up new flashes of memory: you, so young, barely reaching the pedals; and he, who had seemed the embodiment of imperturbable gentlemanliness.

Then you grew up. And it appeared that was when he carefully stepped aside. University took you ever further and for longer, and his visits to the estate on business with your father became rarer and shorter. It was the detached politeness of a man determined to keep a clear boundary, after all, cut off mid-phrase, lest it turn into something else.

Now he was here, in the almost void hall of your past life, where the echoes of your clumsy scales had long since been replaced by dust… While your parents… where were they? No footsteps on the stairs, no lively voices from your father's office, not even the familiar rustle of your mother's dress or the presence of servants at the door.

He followed your gaze as it wandered over the familiar shadows of the hall. No doubt he could easily read your mind, seeing your confusion and the sudden, poignant realisation that they had once again forgotten you. A barely perceptible smile touched his lips, in silent agreement with your hurt. His fingers touched the keys again, but didn't play; they merely skimmed over them in a light, thoughtful caress, extracting a cackle of dissonance that immediately melted away.

"They've urgent business in Asia for a few weeks," he confirmed.

The man rose slowly; his tall figure in the perfectly tailored dark suit seemed more monumental in the half-lit space. He turned fully towards you, and now his eyes seemed to gather in all the scant light of the room.

"They left at dawn." A pause. "They remembered your return only at the foot of the aircraft steps. But asked me to keep an eye on you."

Oh, you had changed. Before him now stood a young woman, not the girl.

"And to escort you into the city, that you might not languish here alone. What is it young people call it these days…hang out, I suppose?" The last words were spoken with a touch of irony, but in his tone there was no mockery, rather the weary acknowledgement of a faintly absurd situation.

"I've given the servants a few days off; only a couple remain. The cook will come in the mornings and prepare food for the whole day. But I think we won't need that. Would you like to go to a restaurant? There's no snowstorm, and the helicopter is ready." Vladimir tilted his head to the side, continuing to study you intently, as if trying to come to terms with this new version of you.