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Back then, I had thought, foolishly, that walking again would be what would heal it all. It was only part of my recovery though. I had to grieve, go to a counselor, and treat my survivor’s guilt. Instead, I ended up tangled in a web of lies and then lost my only support and the woman I love—Seraphina.
Losing her was a different kind of pain, a thread that pulled everything apart.
Therapy has taught me a lot. Before even thinking about winning her back, I have to face my own demons, maybe even speak the truth. I hate that my father can barely stand me because he thinks I destroyed his friend’s family. Having to make amends for something I didn’t do, but also for all the pain I inflicted after I went down that dark path is going to be so fucking hard. And nothing I do will guarantee that my relationships will mend.
Drawing in a deep breath, I turn my attention to the piano. The keys seem to call to me, promising comfort. I need this, the escape it provides. Gritting my teeth, I summon the will to begin my exercises. The soft ping of my phone interrupts my concentration—a message from Seraphina.
I hesitate before swiping it open, emotions colliding within me. Part of me fears seeing her name, knowing it will stir up more feelings. I don’t think I can handle them right now. Not while I’m raw from my earlier conversation with my therapist. But I also crave any connection to her, any sign she still thinks of me, even just as her patient.
My thumb hovers over the screen as I wage an inner war. In the end, I steel myself and tap the notification, bracing for her cool detachment or terse instructions. But at least hearing from her gives me something . . . company, hope, or just a connection with her. And right now, I need all of those.
Sephie: Can you please head to the third floor?
I hesitate, fingers hovering over the screen. I’m in the middle of something, right where I need to be. In the music room, trying to get my hand to work, while I pour the pain from inside my soul into the only place that won’t make me think or resent me.
Sephie: Brahms, I need you to answer now.
Brahms: Why?
Sephie: I have an emergency that can’t wait.
My jaw tightens, fingers gripping the phone. The urgency, the pleading in her message is clear. But I’ve got my own boundaries.
Brahms: Nope. It’s three. Deal with it at five.
Sephie: Okay, then don’t move from the music room until I say so, understand?
Confusion courses through me, brows drawing together. The point of her message is to seclude me in one area. Why is she doing that? I have to know what’s happening. Is she hiding something? Me?
Brahms: What is going on?
Sephie: Nothing that pertains to you.
I can’t help the spike of frustration.
Brahms:If you’re going to keep me in an enclosed space, it becomes my fucking business.
A few moments pass, long enough for my mind to spiral with possibilities.
Sephie: I don’t have time for this, Brahms. Can you work with me? I need one person to give me a hand. Please let it be you.
I stare at the message, concern rising. She’s sassy but never this cryptic. Something must be really wrong. My fingers hover over the keyboard as I contemplate how to respond. I want to demand answers, but she asked for my help. I have to give her that much, the questions can come later.
Brahms: Fine, I’ll stay put until you let me know it’s time. If you need anything else, reach out.
I hit send, hoping I don’t regret this. My gut twists with uncertainty, but all I can do now is wait. The best way to keep the anxiety at bay is by playing, which is almost impossible with just one hand. I sit at the piano and try to focus on moving my fingers along the keys. It’s clumsy, frustrating work with only my left hand functional. I’m so absorbed in my struggles that I don’t hear the door creak open.
“That doesn’t sound great. You need to practice more.”
I’m startled by the unexpected child’s voice. When I look up, I see a little boy peering at me curiously. He has unruly dark hair and bright blue eyes that watch me intently. Somehow he looks familiar, though I’m certain I’ve never seen him before.
Does the center treat children too? Is he part of Seraphina’s emergency? I can’t have a kid running around unsupervised, that’s for sure. Kids and I don’t mix well.
Then memories come tumbling back. When we talked about the future, Seraphina mentioned she wanted a family, at least three kids, maybe five like my parents. I wanted a little girl who would look like her. She swore we would only have boys—it’s in my DNA.
“Hey, did you lose your parents?” I ask, taken aback by this unexpected visitor. “What’s your name?”
“I’m not lost.” The boy grins, revealing a gap-toothed smile. “I’m Ewan. With a ‘W’ not a ‘V,’” he clarifies importantly.
