(Malcolm)
Morning crept in behind the mountains, gray and wet. Rain ticked against the windowpanes of the Velvet House, and the scent of damp wood filled the hallways. Malcolm sat at the dining table with the locket resting in his palm, the photograph inside turned toward the light.
Charles Reed looked back at him through the fogged glass of time—same jawline, same half-smile that always made people think Malcolm was about to say something honest and didn't. He traced the initials carved inside the hinge: C + L. The metal was warped from heat, edges curled like petals that had burned but refused to crumble.
Eden padded in quietly, wrapped in a sweater the color of dusk. "You didn't sleep."
"Couldn't," he said. "Feels like I'm staring at a mirror that remembers more than I do."
She set two mugs down—coffee for him, tea for herself—and unfolded the sheet music between them. The ink had bled in places, but the melody lines were still visible. "I tried to play it last night," she said. "It stops here—mid-phrase. Like someone was interrupted."
"Or like they were waiting for an answer."
Their eyes met over the paper. The house creaked softly, settling around them as though listening.
Eden carried the sheet to the piano. "Play with me," she said. "Maybe the song just needs both halves."
He hesitated. He hadn't touched a piano since childhood lessons his father made him take, insisting a carpenter should understand harmony the same way he understood measurements. But the moment his fingers brushed the keys beside hers, something in him unlocked.
The first notes rose thin and hesitant, then steadied. The melody swelled—sad, searching. And just when it reached the unfinished bar, a faint vibration pulsed through the floorboards, like a breath drawn in surprise.
A framed photograph on the mantel trembled. The candle flame bent sideways though no wind blew. The house, once again, was awake.
Eden stopped playing. "Did you feel that?"
"Yeah," he said quietly. "Same as the light."
They sat in the ringing silence that followed, hearts still beating in time with the last echo of the chord.
Eden folded the sheet music again, careful not to smudge the ink. "There's writing on the back. I didn't see it before."
Malcolm took it from her, angling it toward the window. Faint pencil marks appeared—a line of numbers, then an address: Hollow Cemetery Plot 7A.
He exhaled. "Of course. The only place left for unfinished stories."
They drove out before noon, rain easing to a mist. Raven Hollow's cemetery sat on a hill above the river, iron gates eaten with rust. The ground squelched beneath their boots. Names half-erased by moss lined the narrow path.
Plot 7A lay near a cluster of birches. Two headstones stood side by side—one engraved, one blank. The carved stone read Lydia Moore Reed, 1922–1947. The second was smooth marble, never chiseled, its surface streaked with soot.
Malcolm knelt and brushed rainwater away. "They gave her a name," he murmured, "but not him."
Eden knelt beside him. "Maybe he was never found."
He shook his head. "Or maybe no one wanted to remember."
The locket felt heavier in his pocket. He opened it and placed it against the blank stone. For an instant, he thought he heard something beneath the rain—two voices blending in a chord, the same one that had trembled through the house.
Eden touched his shoulder. "You think they were trying to finish their song?"
"Maybe." He stood, rain darkening his coat. "Or maybe they were trying to tell us where it ends."
They stayed until the light began to fade, the mist turning violet over the valley. When they returned to the truck, Eden leaned back against the seat, eyes closed. "I keep thinking about that night," she said softly. "A builder and a musician. A house and a song. Both burned. What if love itself was the fire?"
Malcolm watched the road ahead, gravel crunching under the tires. "Then maybe we're just what's left when it cools."
The rest of the drive was quiet, the kind of silence that holds more than words could bear.
When they reached the Velvet House, the hallway smelled faintly of lilac, though no flowers bloomed this season. A single candle flickered on the piano, lit by no one they could see. The sheet music lay open again—only this time, the last measure had been completed in delicate new ink.
Three final notes. A resolution.
Eden's hand slipped into his, cold and trembling. "They finished it."
He squeezed her fingers. "No," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "They gave it back to us."
Outside, the wind carried the sound of the river. Inside, the candle burned steady, casting twin shadows across the wall—two figures standing close, framed by the ghosts of promises kept.