The muted glow of the early morning filtered between the skyscrapers of downtown Chicago, casting elongated shadows across the high-rise apartment. Inside, the room was alive with the stirring echoes of an awakening day—distant car horns, the soft whisper of the city breeze sneaking through a slightly ajar window, and the unmistakable rustle of pages as Christine searched her suitcase.
The room was only half unpacked, a reflection of a transition not yet complete. Cardboard boxes leaned tiredly against one another, their once-crisp labels beginning to curl at the edges. Clothing draped carelessly from an open drawer, like forgotten dreams spilling into reality. Amongst this ordered chaos, Christine moved with a quiet urgency, her long dark curly hair cascading in gentle waves over her shoulders, lending an ethereal lightness to her determined search.
“Where is it?” she murmured, her soft voice barely rising above a whisper, as if the words themselves were a fragile secret.
Her hands traced over flannel shirts and old concert tees before they found the small toiletry bag she had been looking for. But as she pulled it free, something else slipped forward—an old photo album. It tumbled from the suitcase with a heavy thump, landing open, pages splayed on the plush carpet like the wings of a slumbering bird.
Christine placed the toiletry bag on a towel at the edge of her unmade bed, her attention irresistibly drawn to the album. She hesitated for a moment before reaching down, fingers pausing just above the faded cover. The echo of its past seemed to hum in the air between them, promising memories that she both yearned for and feared.
With a slow, deliberate breath, Christine lifted the album from the floor, turning its mouth of secrets toward her. The pages breathed open easily under her fingers, revealing a photograph she hadn't seen in years. It was of her younger self, standing next to her mother, both illuminated by the warm glow of stage lights. Her mother was dressed in a magnificent opera stage dress, an echo of a grander age sewn into the fabric. The backdrop was familiar, the intricately carved arches of the old opera house in France, a venue that had long since become one with the whispers of history.
Christine had her hair tied back in a neat braid, her eyes wide with wonder and adoration. Her mother's hand rested gently on her shoulder, a touch filled with love and an unspoken promise of dreams yet to unfold.
A lump rose in Christine's throat, the bittersweet tang of nostalgia mingling with the air. She traced her mother's face with a tender finger, as though reacquainting herself with a lost lullaby. Her mother's eyes sparkled with life, an expression at once joyous and full of mysterious depths—depths that Christine had spent much of her life trying to understand, but which had evaded her until now.
In that moment, Christine's new apartment seemed to fade around her, the stark walls blurring into the soft pastels of memory. She let herself be swept back to that distant time, when her mother would rehearse at the grand piano while she twirled in the wings, imagining herself in an endless sea of velvet and gold. Night after night, she would watch as her mother took to the stage, her voice a force of nature that wove enchantments with every note.
The vision was a poignant reminder of a time when life had been as simple as a melody. Christine had once belonged to the rhythms of that world, her childlike fantasies spinning stories in time with the music. But even then, there had been an undercurrent—a dark note she couldn't quite place in words but felt profoundly in the pit of her stomach. It was a reality that would later unravel, threading itself into the intricate, dark weave of her adult life.
The glass walls of Christine's high-rise apartment, casting soft shadows that danced with the flickering memories in her mind. She sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by the haunting silence of solitude, her fingers tenderly clutching a weathered photo album that smelled faintly of dust and forgotten hopes.
Each page turned like the whispered secrets of a past long buried — yet not forgotten. Her gaze settled upon one photograph, creased at the edges, its colors faded with time. Christine leaned in, her breath halting as if at the edge of an emotional precipice. In the photograph's margins, a reflection captured as if by accident — a boy, eyes wide with the innocent intensity of youth, stood apart yet acutely aware. She marveled aloud, her voice a fragile echo in the dim room, “I never noticed that before.”
With a deliberate slowness, she drew the album closer to her face, focusing on the boy who hovered at the periphery of a captured moment. He stood like a ghostly guardian, observing Christine and her mother in the photograph. His face bore a resemblance to forgotten summer days and stolen whispers, invoking an ache that threaded through her heart, raw and tender.
“Erik,” she breathed, her voice fractured with unspent emotion. The name hung in the air like a silent elegy, a soft cry to someone who had become part of the ether, a shade from an old world. She knew him once, in the time between innocence and the encroaching shadows that life cast before them both. Christine traced his figure with a trembling finger, an ethereal connection that spanned beyond his resting place, six feet beneath the cruel earth.
Closing her eyes, she sought solace in the darkness behind her eyelids — but found only the album’s fading laughter and unfulfilled promises waiting there. She snapped the book shut, imprisoning the memories once more, and with a hard resolve, she shoved it back into the confines of her suitcase.
Christine stared blankly at the world outside her window, the city waking slowly beneath her. A skyline etched against the awakening sky spoke to the persistence of time and place — unlike the memories that lingered, refusing to evolve. She was momentarily caught in the liminal space between past and present, a tug-of-war between what was lost and what remained.
Eventually, she stirred from her reverie, her heart heavy but determined. She picked up her toiletry bag and towel — ordinary items that offered a distraction from her consuming introspection. The hallway stretched before her, a path bathed in the gentle hues of morning.
Entering the bathroom, she paused to look at her reflection. Christine regarded herself as though confronting a stranger. Her eyes, mirrors to her soul, carried the weight of unspoken words and the burden of memories that refused to scatter. She touched the cool surface of the mirror, grounding herself in the reality that would demand her focus, the tasks that awaited beyond the confines of grief.
The morning ritual began, encompassing her in routine, each motion a return to the mundane yet necessary. As the steam rose, clouding the mirror, Christine allowed herself to succumb, momentarily, to the enveloping warmth, each droplet a silent witness to her silent resolve.
And so, surrounded by the vestiges of the night and the promise of a new day, Christine held onto her fragments of the past, a bittersweet talisman against the piercing clarity of the present. She knew, as she stepped back into her bedroom, that the real challenge lay not in remembering but in allowing herself to forge new memories.
***
In the shadowy, enigmatic confines of the opera house’s basement, the ambiance is thick with the echoes of unanswered questions and muted whispers. Flickering candlelight casts an ethereal glow, transforming the somber stone walls into fleeting mosaics of shadow and light. The air is heavy, saturated with the warmth of melted wax and the faint, melancholic notes of a piano's last lament.
Amidst this velvety darkness lies a sprawling bed, draped in silk as black as obsidian, beckoning like a siren’s call in the quietude. Upon it rests Rahul, his form partly absorbed by the deeply colored fabric that clings to him as if to preserve his warmth. His skin, almost translucent under the haunting candle glow, is like that of a delicate statue — achingly beautiful and sculpted by some divine artisan. Blonde hair, a cascade of golden promises, spills over one shoulder, catching the light and shimmering like spun sunlight.
Erik watches over him with a devotion both tender and tumultuous. His fingers, fine and calculating, trace a path along Rahul's jawline, a touch both ghostly and reverent. It is a ritual of remembrance, a silent ode to a time before flames and fate transformed him. The candles’ hesitant light caresses Erik’s face, illuminating the savagery of his scars — relics of a past better forgotten but not forgiven.
“I remember when I was as beautiful as you,” he murmurs, each word a caress, barely louder than a breath. There's a certain tragedy in his voice, a silent note of mourning for the person he once was and might have remained.
To Erik, Rahul is an untainted canvas, unmarred by the cruelties of time and circumstance. He runs a hand through Rahul’s hair, an indulgent gesture that seeks solace, or perhaps redemption. Rahul’s lashes flutter like moth wings against his cheeks as consciousness slowly pulls him from the arms of sleep.
Erik moves with a practiced grace, his hand reaching for the alabaster mask that has shielded him from the world and himself for years. As he places it over his scars, he dons both armor and prison. The mask is a paradox — a declaration of defiance and a surrender to fear. Yet, as Rahul awakens fully, piercing blue eyes lock onto Erik’s mismatched face, seeing beyond the porcelain exterior.
“You look ridiculous with that thing on,” Rahul remarks, his voice a gentle reprimand amidst the blue velvet shadows.
A faint smile tugs at Erik’s lips, a rare, unbidden expression. In Rahul’s gaze, he finds a reflection of acceptance unmarred by pity or horror. It is a balm he never dared seek, yet unwittingly craved.
The room is silent, save for the distant hum of city life far above, a reminder that somewhere beyond this cocoon of secrets, a world spins on, oblivious to the dramas penned in its depths. In the haze of candlelight, the two figures seem carved from the same piece of shadow, intertwined in their own dynamic — at once tender and tumultuous.
Erik’s fingers, almost of their own volition, reach up and touch the mask. He hesitates, caught between vulnerability and the instinct to hide, to shield. But under Rahul’s steady gaze, a decision teeters on the precipice of action. Perhaps the time for concealment is waning, just as the candles are burning low.
In the ensuing quiet, the grand narrative of their lives unfurls. It is a tale woven in darkness and light, in love unspoken and wounds worn like ink on flesh. As the morning stretches its golden fingers through hidden cracks, one wonders if the day might finally dawn on truths long buried, and if such revelations might lead to salvation or despair in this clandestine Eden.
In the flickering half-light of the opera's basement, a sanctuary cloaked in shadows and candlelit whispers, the air seemed to hold its breath as if aware of the secrets it sheltered. The grand piano, aged and scarred like its master, stood sentinel near the imposing bed draped with silken sheets. Erik, moving with the grace of a shadow, slipped from beneath the warmth of the covers, his garments seemingly abandoned in the haste of rising dawn. His lean form, etched with a history of silent suffering, made its way to the piano. With each step, the soft padding of his feet on the stone floor unified with the distant hum of the city above.
As Erik’s fingers caressed the keys, music blossomed and spilled into the room's silence, wrapping itself around Rahul, who stirred at the loss of warmth beside him. Drawn like a moth to the flame, Rahul rose, his movements slow and deliberate, as if savoring the moment between sleep and reality. He eased himself onto the piano bench, his presence a counterpoint to Erik's intensity. The music soared, drowning the hesitations that clung to the unspoken words.
Yet, over the powerful strains of the melody rising from Erik’s soul, Rahul’s voice broke through — a warm, low murmur tinged with concern and the promise of possibilities yet unraveling. “I can have one of my father’s friends help you with some of these scars,” he offered, his tone infused with sincerity. “You could be a star again.”
Erik's fingers faltered, the music perishing under the weight of memories resurrected — a brief silence that revealed the raw edges of longing and loss. “My aunt used the money from my death to help you start this opera house,” Erik replied, his voice a quiet storm. “If the insurance company finds out I am alive, my aunt would be in big trouble.” His words hung heavy between them, a reminder of the tangled web of lies and half-truths that bound them.
Rahul reached out, a tender gesture to touch what lay beneath Erik’s ever-present mask, a symbol of the past he could not forsake. Erik recoiled, gently yet firmly, a push not of disdain but of caution, of poignant complexities neither dared to fully voice. “Perhaps you should call and apologize to Meg,” Erik suggested, steering the conversation to safer shores.
Yet Rahul, persistent as the tide, would not be so easily diverted. With a languid touch tracing patterns across Erik’s chest, he laughed softly, the sound melding with distant memories and the candle’s vigil. “Why? I did nothing wrong. So, I looked at another woman.”
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
Erik met his gaze, a silent reproach living in the depths of his eyes. “You looked at her best friend,” he countered, the truth a gentle rebuke, a reality that threatened the fragile balance they maintained.
Rahul, undeterred, poked at Erik’s arm with mock indignation, his words laced with a hint of devilry. “I am doing far worse with her cousin.”
Erik’s expression remained unyielding, his amusement tempered by the gravity that lay beneath their playful banter. The candles flickered defiantly against the encroaching morning light, casting dancing shadows across their world. As Erik’s fingers once again sought solace in the keys, crafting melodies of yearning and hope, they both sat in the cocoon of their making.
***
Morning crept into the dim recess of the Opera house's cavernous basement, its rays curtailed by thick stone walls. The flickering shadows of candlelight cast dancing on the walls, lending the room an ephemeral grandeur. The space was a curious juxtaposition of austere functionality and opulent decay: a grand piano that had seen countless encores sat beside a disheveled bed, its sheets tangled and worn from fitful nights. Here, where the world above seemed a distant memory, the air was thick with a quiet longing.
Rahul stood, arms folded, observing Erik at the piano. Erik’s fingers moved with practiced grace over the keys, coaxing from them a melody that was both haunting and tender, lingering in the air like an unspoken wish. It was a symphony that whispered secrets—a language only hearts like Rahul's and Erik's could decipher.
“Fine,” Rahul said, breaking the spell the music had woven around them. “I'll call Meg.” His voice held a hint of admonishment wrapped in gentle jest, a familiar orchestration between them.
Erik paused mid-note, the abrupt end of the melody hanging momentarily before being devoured by silence. He rose with a feline grace, shadows hugging his lean frame as he moved to sit beside Rahul on the edge of the bed. His gaze followed Rahul’s to the phone on the nightstand—a solitary beacon in this sunless enclave.
“It's over there,” Erik said, his voice as smooth as the honeyed keys of his instrument. He gestured towards Rahul's cell phone with a nod, his eyes lingering on Rahul's profile, as if memorizing each contour anew.
Rahul reached for the phone, the device cold and impersonal against the warmth of his skin. He dialed Meg's number with a practiced ease, each ring a steppingstone from this intimate cocoon into the bustling world above. The call connected, and Meg's vivacious voice spilled into the room. Yet, Rahul's focus shifted momentarily, snagged on a distant, exuberant singing bleeding through the connection.
“Meg, can you turn down the radio!?” Rahul's voice was strained against the invading melody, a reminder of the vibrant life pulsating beyond these walls.
Through the static crackle, Meg's voice returned, amused and resigned. “I’ll close my bedroom door. Christine must be listening to music.” The mention of Christine brought an echo of a smile to Rahul's lips, a reminder of friendships sheltering them from the encroaching darkness.
The conversation continued, details and plans exchanged while Erik remained a silent sentinel by Rahul's side. In the soothing cadence of Meg's voice, there lay a promise of another day, another chance—a whispered solace that painted warmth onto the sterile stone.
Rahul, perched on the edge of a narrow bed draped with heavy, velvet covers, clutched his phone tight to his ear, furrowing his brow. He listened intently, not only to the voice on the line but to the silence that began to settle, like dust, in the corners of the room. His eyes, dark and intense, swept over Erik, who sat beside him with an air of composed mystery, as though every moment contained an entwined tale yet untold.
“Be quiet for a moment,” Rahul murmured, not unkindly, holding up his hand as if to still the room further, his lips curling into an apologetic smile. His attention, however, was pulled back to the voice that fluttered through the phone, a fragile connection to the world above.
“Meg.” Her voice was neither reproachful nor warm but held the clipped tones of someone who has yet to decide which to be. “Yes, what do you want?”
“I’m sorry for last night,” Rahul's voice softened, a thread of sincerity woven into every syllable. He imagined her somewhere far in the world above, the morning sun perhaps curling around her like a golden shawl, warming her where this underground haven could not. “I hope we are okay.”
Meg’s exhale was audible, a gentle sigh that spoke of lingering shadows of discord. “Please try to make Christine feel comfortable.”
“I know,” he replied, determination and regret sewn into his voice. “I will do better in the future.”
Rahul could envision Meg's nod, perhaps involuntary, a promise accepted with grace understated. There was a pause—a shared moment across distance and static—before Meg’s voice drifted back to him. “Thank you. I love you. See you later today.”
“I love you, Meg,” Rahul echoed, fingers trembling ever so slightly as he ended the call. He held the phone in his hand for just a heartbeat longer, as if reluctant to sever the line that linked two worlds. Then, with a wry smile, he turned to Erik. “I wonder if the singer does opera,” he jested, his voice a gentle balm against the tension of moments past.
Erik's lips twitched with amusement, though his eyes remained fathomless, like midnight pools. “That wasn’t the radio, that was Christine,” he said, each word wrapped in mystery and reminiscence, like layers of finely spun silk.
Rahul laughed softly, warmth threading through his voice as he swatted playfully at Erik’s chest. “You should convince her to sing on stage.” His words held a teasing challenge, but beneath them lay a sincere belief in the transformative power of music—a magic he knew Erik understood all too well.
But Erik's gaze slipped away, drawn to some distant point beyond the fragile cloister of their basement refuge. “I couldn’t convince her before,” he admitted softly, his voice a shadow of its commanding self. There was a weight in those words, one that echoed not just of past attempts but of knowing the limits of one's power when the soul resists.
Rahul sat up on the bed, the duvet a textured sea of crimson beneath the playful splay of his fingers. He placed his cell phone on the nightstand precisely, as if aligning the present moment with some invisible thread of fate. With a sigh that echoed the soft murmur of his heart, he surrendered himself back against Erik’s bare chest—a monument of strength and solace wrapped in the subtleties of moonlit skin.
The rhythmic rise and fall of Erik’s breathing was a lullaby, a gentle reminder of life’s ebb and flow, cradling Rahul’s tumultuous thoughts. Rahul’s hand, graceful and delicate, orchestrated silent symphonies across the expanse of Erik’s muscular chest.
“Fine, she is quite lovely. Did you and Christine?” Rahul’s voice was a whisper flavored with curiosity and a hint of mischief, weaving itself into the ambient symphony of subdued candlelight flickering against the walls.
Erik's laughter erupted, a melody sharp with irony and softened by nostalgia. It resonated deep within his chest, as though revealing hidden chambers of forgotten tales and half-lived dreams. “No,” he replied, his voice a blend of amusement and reminiscence, tempered with the wisdom of past regrets. “She hated me as much as she did the stage.”
A question hovered in Rahul’s eyes, a luminescent query dancing in the twilight gaze, begging to unfold the narrative’s heart. “Why?” he asked, the simplicity of the word belying the complexity of its weight.
Erik’s smile was a skylark in captivity, briefly sad and utterly beautiful. “Because me and the stage spent more time with her mother,” he confessed.
In this room where shadows governed, their tangled limbs spoke of sorrow and salvation. Rahul absorbed Erik’s confession, weaving it into his own tapestry of experience.
***
In the quiet morning, inside the heart of the apartment, the sun filtered through thin blinds, casting stripes of golden light that danced across the floor of Meg's bedroom. She had just hung up her cell phone, absently staring at the screen as remnants of the conversation lingered in her mind. But the serene silence she longed for was interrupted by the muffled tones of music emanating from somewhere within the apartment.
With a curious frown, she rose from the bed, the soft carpet cushioning her feet as she stepped into the hallway. The sound, hauntingly beautiful and unexpected, beckoned her toward the bathroom. An ethereal melody wound its way through the air, wrapping around her senses as her heart quickened in her chest.
The bathroom door stood slightly ajar. Through its gap, wisps of steam curled out, carrying the scent of lavender and rosemary, subtly perfuming the air. Meg gently pushed the door open wider and peered inside, her eyes scanning for a speaker or radio—the source of such an otherworldly tune. Instead, she found Christine, standing beneath the stream of the shower, water cascading around her like a diaphanous veil, her voice the lone instrument in an unwritten symphony.
In her surprise, Meg's grip loosened on her cell phone, which tumbled from her grasp and clattered onto the tile floor with a sharp sound that cut through the melodic air. The singing ceased abruptly, replaced by the rhythmic patter of water against porcelain.
“Who is there?” Christine's voice, melodic even in inquiry, echoed softly against the walls.
Flustered, Meg bent quickly to retrieve her phone, feeling the chill of the floor against her fingertips as she replied hastily, “It's me, Meg. Sorry, Christine. I had to make a few calls and came in here to turn down your music, but...” Her voice trailed off, awe tinged with belated embarrassment. “I forgot how lovely your voice is.”
Christine, still hidden behind the veil of steam and water, chuckled softly, the sound a warm ripple in the cool air. “I'm sorry,” she replied, genuine regret threaded through her words. “I didn't mean to be so loud.”
Meg moved back toward the door, the steam retreating as she did. She paused at the threshold, turning back to say, “I'll start a pot of coffee.”
Through the obscuring curtain, Christine's silhouette nodded, her gratitude apparent in her voice. “Thank you, Meg. You're the best.” Her words lingered in the air, accompanied by the soft resumption of her humming—a gentle melody that followed Meg as she exited the bathroom.
A quiet ritual began as Meg, her thoughts swirling like the cream in her coffee, moved almost mechanically from the bathroom to the coffee pot. Her fingers fumbled slightly as she reached for the mugs—a moment's pause, then a lingering sigh passed her lips. “Maybe, this was a mistake,” she murmured to the empty room, her voice barely rising above the faint hum of the coffee maker.
The aroma of brewing coffee slowly filled the air, mingling with the comforting warmth of toasting muffins. It was a small solace, a temporary distraction from the tumultuous thoughts that entangled her mind like encroaching ivy. Each tick of the clock seemed to echo louder, a reminder of decisions made and paths chosen, with little room for regret and even less for the doubt she couldn't shake off her shoulders.
Just as the coffee pot released one last satisfying gurgle, signaling its completion, Christine breezed into the room. The energy she carried clashed with Meg's muted contemplation, her presence immediate and grounding. Dressed in her crisp usher uniform, black polished and pristine, Christine stood in stark contrast to the quiet, unraveled interior of Meg’s thoughts. Each pleated crease and shining button seemed to shout determination, as if she were already marching down the aisles of the grand Opera house.
Christine caught Meg's eye as she poured herself a steaming cup, pausing momentarily to assess the silent distress that seemed to cling to her friend like an unspoken lament. “Is everything okay?” she asked, her voice gentle yet probing, seeking the root of the unspoken tension.
“The Opera house doesn’t open for a few weeks,” Meg replied, her words a soft cascade, laden with the weight of myriad unsaid things.
“I know,” Christine said, her tone unwavering, infused with purpose. “But I want to look professional for your mother. I hope she sees that I am serious about this job.”
Meg nodded, a flicker of a smile playing at her lips as she retrieved the warmed muffins from the toaster, handing one to Christine. The simple act felt like a bridge, a shared moment of normalcy amidst the chaos of uncertainty. “Stay as long as you want,” Meg offered, the words sincere yet tinged with an underlying wistfulness.
Christine took a bite of her muffin, savoring the sweet reassurance of her friend’s support. “Soon,” she replied, hope threading through her words, “I’ll save enough money, and get a place.”
Meg sat at the counter, her fingers wrapped around a mug of steaming coffee, her eyes occasionally flitting to Christine, who was perched opposite her. The silence between them was companionable, a testament to years of friendship, yet there was something else thrumming beneath the surface.
“Don’t rush,” Meg said, her voice gentle yet carrying an undercurrent of urgency. But before Christine could respond, a sharp ring from the front door pierced the tranquility of the morning. Meg sighed, setting down her mug with a soft clink. “It’s too early for all of this.”
With a resigned shake of her head, Meg pushed herself away from the counter, her bare feet padding softly across the cool, tiled floor as she made her way to the door. When she opened it, the early morning sun framed a tall, shadowy figure on the doorstep. The air was cool but charged, as though anticipating the stormy exchange about to unfold.
“Why haven’t you returned my calls?” the man demanded, his voice tense, breaking the stillness that had enveloped the apartment.
From her place in the kitchen, Christine strained to focus on something else — the pattern of crumbs on her plate, the whorls of steam rising from her cup — yet the charged conversation at the door filtered through, inevitable and inescapable.
Meg’s reply was firm, though her voice wavered just slightly, like a brittle leaf threatened by a coming windstorm. “We are done, Doug. I can’t risk Rahul finding out about us. Don’t come here again.”
Doug stood silent for a moment, his silhouette rigid with frustration that seemed to seep into the quiet corridor, filling every crevice with its unspoken intensity. “Fine,” he spat, and then the abrupt slam of the door rattled the air, a sound that seemed to reverberate long after he’d gone.
Meg lingered in the hallway for a breath, her hand resting on the doorframe as though needing its solidness to steady herself. She closed her eyes briefly, summoning strength from some deep, hidden reservoir, before turning back to the warmth and familiarity of the kitchen.
As she returned, the sunlight seemed harsher, highlighting the tension etched onto her features. She caught Christine’s gaze — a touch of concern hidden beneath her composed exterior. “Please, don’t say anything.” Christine just gave understating nodded.