Page 165 of The Pucking Arrangement

The first note slices through me like a blade.

Clean. Sharp. Precise.

Lethal.

I knew she’d be playing tonight. But nothing could have prepared me for this.

The cello is a part of her—or maybe she’s a part of it. The bow glides across the strings like it’s an extension of her body, every movement fluid and flawless.

But it’s not the technique that’s killing me. It’s the truth buried in the music. Because this isn’t just a performance. This is Erin speaking.

And I hear every unspoken word.

“Papa, Papa!” Ris tugs at my sleeve, her whole body vibrating with excitement. “Erin looks like a princess! Like Ariel with her red hair!”

My throat locks up. I force myself to swallow.

“Yes, Amnushka,” I rasp. “Very beautiful.”

But beautiful doesn’t cover it. Not even close.

The blue dress cascades around her like liquid light, catching the glow of the stage, turning her into something unreal. Something untouchable.

And yet, Ihavetouched her.

I’ve mapped every inch of her skin. Felt her shake beneath my hands, whisper my name like a prayer. I know the exact shape of her mouth when she’s about to come apart. And now I know what she looks like when she’s slipping away.

The opening notes of “We Are the Champions” are unrecognizable at first. Luka’s arrangement transforms the rock anthem into something elegant, almost reverent. Like a farewell.

My fingers curl into fists.

She’s leaving.

I know it. She knows it.

And yet, she still looks at me.

Our eyes collide across the hall, and I stop breathing.

Everything else falls away.

The music swells, building, shifting—so does she.

She straightens her spine, lifts her chin, and suddenly, the slow ache of the opening erupts into something fierce.

The bow becomes a weapon.

Every stroke, every note, every goddamn sound is a demand.

Listen to me.

Look at me.

Fight for me.

The tempo rises. The song becomes hungry. Unforgiving.

Something I can feel in my ribs, my gut, my fucking bones.

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