She appeared without a sound.
He should have expected that by now. No footsteps, no breath, just presence — heavy and familiar like the weight of an old song stuck in his chest.
She moved toward the table slowly, her eyes never leaving him. The violin lay there, untouched. Waiting.
Then, with the kind of grace only memory could have, she picked it up. Held it. Turned to him.
She said nothing.
But he saw it — in the way she cradled it, in the way her fingers hovered near the bow — the question.
"Play for me."-Rachel said
His throat closed.
“No,” he said, too quickly. His voice cracked with the word.
“No—don’t do that.”
She tilted her head, silently, gently — as if hurt, but not surprised.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered. “Like you expect me to pretend this is normal.”
His eyes burned. He looked away, jaw tightening.
“You always played it better than I did,” he said, softer now. “You made it sound like something alive.”
A breath. He almost laughed, but it shook too hard in his chest to be anything but broken.
“I don’t want to hear myself play, Rachel. I want to hear you.”
His hand clenched. His whole body ached with the truth he couldn’t say.
"I love it when you play, I learned from you! I want to hear you again."
She stepped forward, holding out the violin.
He didn’t take it.
He just stared at her, trembling, as if willing her to move her fingers. To raise the bow. To prove him wrong.
“Please,” he whispered. “Just once. Let me hear you.”