Velvet Ashes
(Eden)
By late winter, the Velvet House had learned to breathe again.
Sunlight now pooled through the tall windows, gathering on the refinished floors like honey. The scent of cedar and varnish replaced the old ash. In the mornings, she could hear birds nesting in the eaves — a sound that once would have startled her, but now made her smile.
Eden stood in the parlor, smoothing a pale linen cloth over the newly restored piano. The scars in its wood remained, faint and silvery, but she didn't mind. Scars told stories.
Malcolm's voice came from behind her. "They'll be here soon."
She turned. He was dressed in his usual black, though his hands and shirt still carried traces of sawdust. Outside, the town was stirring — neighbors she'd once seen only from a distance now coming up the path carrying chairs and lanterns.
Tonight would be the first concert in the Velvet House in nearly a century.
Eden smiled softly. "Do you think they'll believe it — all of it?"
Malcolm leaned against the doorway, his gaze warm and steady. "They'll believe what they hear. Truth has a sound."
When the sun dipped below the ridge, she lit the lanterns and sat at the piano. The crowd hushed. The room seemed to lean closer.
Eden played The Promise — not as a lament, but as a homecoming. The melody rose, threaded with the rhythm of the river and the whisper of the wind through old rafters. And when she reached the final chord, the house didn't echo. It listened.
For a heartbeat, silence reigned. Then applause filled the room — soft at first, then stronger, carrying joy where grief had once lived.
She glanced toward Malcolm. He stood apart, arms folded, eyes bright in the amber light.
Later, after everyone left and the lamps had dimmed, she found him on the porch, looking toward the woods where snow still lingered.
"You did it," he said.
"We did."
He smiled. "The house feels… lighter."
"It is." She stepped beside him. "So do you."
He chuckled under his breath. "Maybe. Or maybe I finally stopped running from ghosts."
"Not all ghosts are meant to be feared," she murmured. "Some just want to be remembered."
The wind carried the faintest note of music — the same three tones Lydia had written so long ago. Only this time, they were gentle, fading like a sigh into dawn.
Eden reached for his hand. "Come inside. The fire's still warm."
(Malcolm)
The last thing he repaired in the house was the beam above the front doorway. He had carved a small symbol into it before sealing it — an infinity shape twined with a flame.
He didn't tell Eden. Some things didn't need explaining.
When he looked around the Velvet House now, he saw no shadows. The walls no longer pulsed with unease. The air smelled of woodsmoke and rain. For the first time, the silence felt sacred.
Eden was by the piano again, humming softly, her hands gliding over the keys. Her hair caught the morning light like a thread of copper.
Malcolm crossed the room, setting a small wooden box on the mantle — the one that had held Lydia's letter and journal page. "We should keep it here," he said. "Let the story stay with the house."
She nodded. "So it can keep remembering."
Outside, the sky was turning pink, the snow melting into the earth.
Eden rose, resting her head against his shoulder. He let his arm curve around her, the weight of the years easing away.
"Malcolm?"
"Mm?"
"What happens now?"
He looked toward the windows, where dawn was painting the glass in gold. "Now we live."
The piano's last note lingered in the still air, and somewhere deep in the foundation, the house exhaled.