Page 30 of The Sound in Silence

Never.

I think the answer is…never.

What could Erico possibly get me that’s a surprise? A new fancy car—don’t want one. More clothes—based on the closet, I have enough. Jewellery—I’m not even wearing my wedding ring, which is still in the room’s corner from where I tossed it.

I open the door to find Sebastian raising his fist, presumably to knock again. Surprise flashes over his face and his arm jerks back to his side. “Oh, Ariella, good. Just got off the phone with the boss. He sent you something. Come, I’ll show you the way.”

He walks down the hall without checking I’m following, but I do. Fuck Erico for using curiosity to tug away the black shade coating my form. Not entirely sure how I feel about that.

Sebastian leads me over the bridge and down to the main floor. He turns left toward the entranceway and the connected hallway we toured yesterday. We pass the small library, which is half the size of the Corsettis’, and toward another room by the end of the hall, which is completely empty. Huge but empty. When asking about it, Sebastian shrugged. Called it an extra space that’s sometimes used for parties and left it at that.

It's that door he opens.

The large room is still quite empty. White, painted walls, and a massive window, showing the side of the house and a bit of the ocean. If I was Erico, I’d make this room my office, so I could observe the water while working.

The difference from present to what I saw yesterday is the black piano tucked against the far side, facing the window.

Holy fuck.

I step into the room without another thought. The door shuts behind me and a quick glance finds Sebastian has left me alone to check out my surprise.

But how did Erico know? Is this Della’s doing?

Composing music is one thing, but my love for the piano runs deep. As a child, I started composing and singing songs, and performed in talent shows throughout elementary school. Mom always praised me for my singing voice, and the older I got, the more other people did too. I never craved fame or to make a career from it, but it was a calming hobby. Made me feel joy. Writing a song, composing the tune with the piano, and singing the lyrics made the blackness fade into a pale grey. In high school, I often borrowed the music classroom but once graduating, I lost all access to pianos until Stefano came into our lives. He owned one I’d often use.

Post-accident, I stopped composing all together. The hobby reminded me too much of what I’d lost—Mom, my voice, my individuality. It was Yasmine, during her visits, that convinced me to get back to it. She saw my notebook one day and, with permission, began flipping through it. Having someone read my private thoughts; the notebook acting as my journal for so long felt weird. There was no logical explanation for allowing her to read it.

In some ways, I’m pleased I did. She suggested I start by composing again, even if I wasn’t comfortable enough singing yet, even to myself. I did, and continued to right until moving in with Della.

When my mood was light enough, I’d compose. I even wrote something to sing at her wedding, hopingthatwould be the thing to wake my voice up. Ignore everyone else and perform for her…but it didn’t pan out that way.

I haven’t written since the wedding.

No point. Even writing for myself is losing meaning as things continue to change around me.

But Erico purchased me the very tool meant to bring me back.

I wander toward it, tempted by the shiny, black coating, which I can’t help but drag a finger over, feeling its smooth exterior. The brand name of Bösendorfer tells me he researched and found one of the best brands on the market.

I don’t know what to think. Somehow heknew…The same man who blatantly stated we’d lead different lives, live in different homes, who ran off the moment he got his wedding ring on my finger, is the same person who learned something authentic about me. His gift could have very easily been thoughtless materialistic items, like jewels, rather than something he believed I’d sincerely enjoy.

He was correct.

This is a game, Ariella. He’s trying to lure you in. Make you feel like you’re content to be a domesticated housewife he can visit when he feels like it.

My inner voice might be correct…

But for now, I lift the lid to the ivory keys, pausing when I find an envelope with my name etched on it. I pick it up and slide out the letter, reading every word as my confusion deepens.

Ariella,

Happy birthday. I’m sorry for my absence, but I wanted you to have this in my stead.

Erico.

The letter falls onto the keys, my brain numbing, still unable to formulate a proper word for what he’s doing.

Instead, I cry. Tears, the same I’ve been crying for nearly a day now, continue to slide down my face, but instead of sadness and despair, I’mlost. Not happy—can’t be that. But not unhappy either. Lost. Confused.

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