Page 129 of Hard Knot

The glass piano makes the notes sound otherworldly, each tone crystal clear but somehow softer than traditional strings. The song takes on new meaning through the instrument, its melancholy threading through the space like silk.

I lean against the doorframe, not wanting to interrupt this private moment. There's something mesmerizing about watching someone so controlled allow themselves this vulnerability.

His posture is different at the piano; less rigid, more natural.

Like he can finally breathe.

The next thing I'm aware of is a gentle touch on my cheek, rousing me from what must have been an impromptu nap.

Standing no less…

I blink, realizing I'd dozed off right there against the doorframe, reminding me of all the times James would have to wake me up when I was far too exhausted that I could sleep standing if it was quiet enough.

An old habit from years of pushing myself past exhaustion, trying to achieve perfect control through endless practice.

How fitting to find that same drive for perfection here, translated through different keys and musical tones.

Heat rushes to my cheeks as I fully wake, suddenly very aware of Holmes' proximity.

Without the blindfold, his features are striking in a way that demands attention — though not for the reasons most would assume.

I find my gaze drawn first to his left side, the undamaged half that so clearly echoes his mother's features. The same high cheekbones, the same subtle arch of a brow, even the same slight curve to his lips that suggests hidden depths beneath careful control.

Up close, the resemblance is almost startling.

Like looking at living art.

His good eye catches mine, and that perfectly arched brow lifts in silent question.

The blush deepens as I realize I've been caught not just staring, but essentially snooping through his family home.

"I'm sorry," I say quickly, dropping my gaze. "I shouldn't have wandered around without permission. It's just..." I gesture vaguely at our surroundings, searching for words that won't sound like criticism of their other residence. "This place feels so different. Warm. Like someone actually lives here instead of just existing in perfectly arranged spaces."

His expression shifts slightly — surprise maybe, or curiosity.

"I used to love exploring places like this with my mother," I continue, the words spilling out before I can stop them. "Museums, historical homes, anywhere with stories built into the walls. She'd make up elaborate tales about the people in paintings, giving them whole lives beyond their frozen moments in time."

A soft laugh escapes me at the memory.

"She had such imagination. Could spin entire novels from a single portrait. Said you could tell more about people from what they chose to preserve than what they chose to display."

The corner of his mouth twitches, almost a smile.

"And what does this place tell you?" His voice is rough from disuse, but there's genuine interest in his tone. It’s amazing to actually strike up a conversation with him, especially when I haven’t been able to get much of a sentence in all of our prior interactions.

I consider the question seriously, looking around the light-filled space.

"That whoever lives here values authenticity over appearance. The blend of old and new, the way everything has a purpose beyond just looking expensive..." I pause, organizing my thoughts. "It feels like a home that's been allowed to evolve naturally, to collect memories instead of just possessions."

Like the opposite of what happened after Marissa arrived.

Something must show in my expression because Holmes tilts his head slightly.

"Marissa?"

I blink, not realizing I'd said the name aloud.

"My...replacement, I guess you could say." The words taste bitter, but I force them out anyway. "The perfect daughter they always wanted. Beta status, proper manners, no inconvenient academic ambitions or artistic pursuits to complicate things."

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