Her lips curve into a small smile, a faint flicker of determination lighting her face. “I think I know how we can bring up some of your memories,” she says. “Music.”
Music?My stomach twists. Does she not see my hands? Can’t she tell I can’t play? And what am I going to do if this plan the doctors and therapists came up with doesn’t work? If I can’t hold a guitar ever again?
The thought claws at me, and suddenly, it’s hard to breathe. My chest feels constricted—not in a way I can push through, but like the air has been stolen from the room. My pulse races, the world narrowing until it’s just the overwhelming panic taking over, suffocating me.
“Keane?” Her voice cuts through the haze, and then she’s right in front of me, her hands reaching for mine. “Hey, look at me. Just breathe.”
Breathe?I can’t. The air’s too thick, too much.
She shifts closer, her hands firm but gentle, grounding me. “Okay,” she says softly, her voice calm but urgent. “Follow me. In through your nose, out through your mouth. You can do this.”
Her voice cuts through the haze, breaking into the overwhelming spiral. My focus shifts to her face, the warmth of her hands holding mine drawing me back to the present. She’s close—so close I can see every detail: the faint freckles scattered across her nose, the delicate sweep of her lashes, the gentle movement of her lips forming words that guide me, pulling me back from the brink.
“That’s it,” she murmurs, her thumbs brushing over my knuckles in soft, soothing strokes. “You’re okay. I’m here.”
I follow her lead, forcing air in through my nose, then out through my mouth. It’s slow at first, uneven, but the rhythmstarts to come, shaky but real. The tension in my chest loosens just enough for the air to flow again.
Her hands stay on mine, her touch firm and reassuring. She shifts closer, so close that I can feel the warmth of her presence, the way her gaze holds mine like she’s willing me to come back.
“You’ve got this.”
Her words sink into me, the panic receding just enough to leave me feeling raw, exposed. But there’s something else too—her touch, her voice, her being here. It feels familiar in a way I can’t explain, like a thread connecting me to something I’ve lost.
I stare at her, my breath still uneven but less desperate now.
“Let me get something from my room. You need music. That’s going to be the cure.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Ophelia
Today marksa month since Keane woke up. Progress is slow but steady, each day bringing small victories that feel monumental. During this time, I’ve been away for a couple of jobs. While I’m away, Rowan has visited, but he’s always left by the time I return.
I don’t want to say that he’s avoiding me, but he’s definitely avoiding me. Men . . . It’s hard to understand them at times. I haven’t spoken to him since he left, disgruntled that I refused to let him take Keane. And then there’s Haydn—I haven’t spoken to him either, though he’s made sure I hear from him.
Flowers. Gifts. Notes. Every day, sometimes twice. It’s probably his way of saying he’s not giving up on us. The notes all say something sweet. Thinking of you. Love you more than yesterday. Miss you more than you’ll ever know.
Okay fine, thisishis way of saying he’s not letting go. But I know the next move is mine. The puck’s in my rink. Or is it the zone? After three years I’m still getting the analogies wrong, one day I’ll know them well.
After a long session with a client who’s trying to launch a new product, I arrive home, take a long shower, and change into more comfortable clothes. The chef calls me to have dinner. Keane already ate so it’s just me. I would love to tell him to leave it in the fridge, that I’ll eat later. But I can’t. His orders are to stay until I’m done with dinner.
Haydn can play dirty when he wants things done. I get that this is his way to take care of me, but maybe he should be home if he wants things to get done. I miss him so much. Some nights I’m tempted to tell him about my relationship. All of it. Others I write in my journal what I would like to say and then let things be.
Once I’m done eating, I head to check on Keane. When I step into his room, I hear it—one of his songs. The melody drifts softly, filling the space like a whisper from a life neither of us can fully touch anymore. His voice flows through the room, raw and unpolished, carrying the kind of emotion that once felt like it could pull me apart and put me back together all at once. Now, it feels like a door I can’t open, a part of him that remains just out of reach.
“Hey,” I say, my voice gentle as I walk in.
Surprisingly, his response comes—a low, rough, almost gravelly “Hey,” like his vocal cords are remembering how to work.
“Things are finally clicking, huh?” I say with a small smile, nodding toward the speakers.
He shrugs, then gives a nod—not the painstakingly slow movement I’m used to seeing, but something quicker, firmer. Progress. It’s subtle, but it’s there. This makes me so happy. I have faith in him. He’s always tried his best.
“Do you remember this song?” I ask softly, watching him closely.
He’s sitting in the recliner today, not the bed. His nurse has been helping him move around the house when he’s not in session. It’s a way for him to do more exercise while he gets some air. I notice his posture is slumped, his face drawn, his expression distant. He looks tired—or maybe lost in a way I don’t know how to reach.
“Keane?” I try again, my voice softer, coaxing. “Anything?”
