The folk band played another set. A group of local children performed a choreographed routine that was more enthusiasm than coordination. A storyteller wove tales of the town's history, her voice rich and dramatic in the lantern-light.
And then the stage was empty.
A murmur ran through the crowd. This wasn't on the schedule—there was supposed to be another band, a jazz trio from two towns over. She pulled out her phone to check her notes, wondering what had gone wrong.
But then movement caught her eye. Thallos was climbing the stage steps, something tucked under his arm. Something she'd never seen him carry before.
A fiddle.
The instrument was old—she could tell from where she stood, the worn wood and weathered strings of something that had been played thousands of times. He settled it against his shoulder with the easy familiarity of long practice, the bow finding its place in his right hand.
But he didn't begin to play.
Instead, he looked out at the crowd—at her—and for just a moment, she saw something vulnerable beneath the confident facade. Something uncertain. Something afraid.
He's going to play,she realized. After everything. After all these years.
He was choosing vulnerability.
For her.
The night air hung suspended, the crowd hushed with expectation. Lanterns swayed gently overhead, casting dancing shadows across Thallos's face.
He raised the bow.
And began to play.
CHAPTER 27
The fiddle felt heavier than he remembered.
Thallos stood at the center of the stage, the worn wood of the instrument pressed against his shoulder, the bow trembling almost imperceptibly in his right hand. Below him, hundreds of faces waited in the lantern-glow—curious, expectant, unaware of what this moment cost him.
Five years.
Five years since he'd played in front of anyone. Five years since Jen had stood in a crowd much like this one and laughed at the raw emotion he'd poured into his music. Since she'd taken the vulnerability he'd offered and turned it into a weapon.
You actually believe this matters. That's what's funny. You think playing a few songs makes you deep.
The memory rose sharp-edged and familiar. He'd packed away the fiddle that same night. Told himself he was done with performances, done with baring his soul for audiences who couldn't understand. Better to pour wine and tell jokes and keep everything light, surface-level, safe.
His fingers tightened on the bow.
He could still walk away. Make some excuse about the scheduled band running late, hand things off to someone else. No one would blame him. No one would even know what they'd almost witnessed.
But then his eyes found Marigold.
She stood near the front of the crowd, the burgundy of her dress catching the lantern-light like something out of a dream. Her dark hair spilled loose around her shoulders, and her face—gods, her face. She was looking at him with such open hope, such quiet faith, that something in his chest cracked wide open.
She sees you,a voice whispered.The real you. Not the charm, not the performance. You.
And she'd stayed anyway.
She'd stayed through Rachel's barbs and Silas's manipulation. She'd looked at all his broken pieces and chosen to hold them anyway.
The bow found the strings.
The first note rang out pure and clear, a single bright tone that cut through the murmur of the crowd like a blade through silk. It hung in the air for one trembling moment—fragile, exposed—and then the melody began to unfold.
