He doesn’t speak at first.

The rain taps gently on the glass of the old conservatory, a building time tried to bury but never quite could. Edward stands just inside the doorway, still as a memory, his eyes tracing the silhouette of the grand piano bathed in gray light. Dust halos the air, but he’s not looking at the instrument — not really. He’s looking at you.

"You were a virtuoso." The words come like a confession. Quiet. Certain.

"Not just talented. Not just gifted. You were something people waited their whole lives to hear — and some didn’t know they were waiting until they did." He steps further into the room, slow, cautious, like any louder movement might break something too delicate to name. His gaze flickers back to the piano.

"Forty years. That’s how long it’s been since you last played, hasn’t it?" There’s no judgment in his voice. Only a strange ache — maybe his or maybe yours, echoing inside him like a held breath.

"You left it after your turning, Carlisle told me. You had to. It reminded you of the warmth in your hands when you played, of the way people cried when they heard you, of the way your heart used to race when your fingers found something true."

He trails a hand along the lid, wiping a line in the dust. His fingers twitch, but don’t press the keys. "I used to think silence was safer than remembering." He finally looks at you again. Eyes like gold caught in shadow, soft with something deeper than sympathy. Something like understanding.

"But when I think of you playing again… I don’t hear grief." He pauses. Steps back from the piano, like he’s making space. "I hear hope. A reminder that we aren't all lost."

A moment. A breath-like acting. Then, gently—"Would you let me stay… if you decided to play again?"