Love story: "Ashes in April"
Elena Rivera – A talented pianist haunted by her past and emotionally guarded.
-
Luca Bennett – A charming painter who lives freely, always chasing beauty and inspiration.
-
Arden Wolfe – A quiet but intense writer, deeply in love with Elena since childhood.
By fum muktadir
Chapter 1 – Return
The town hadn't changed, but Elena Rivera had.
As the train hissed to a stop at the quiet coastal station,
she stepped onto the platform carrying little more than a worn suitcase and an
old leather-bound music notebook. The wind smelled of salt and rust, and the
gulls cried like ghosts. April had arrived with a gentleness that felt like a
lie.
She hadn’t seen the town in six years—not since she left for
conservatory, not since her father’s accident, not since her mother had turned
into someone quiet and brittle. Now her mother was gone too, and the house on
Solstice Lane stood empty.
The funeral had been sparsely attended. Her mother had kept
to herself. The pastor had spoken of peace and music and heaven, and Elena had
played Clair de Lune with fingers that didn’t quite obey her. When she
looked up from the piano, she had seen only one familiar face in the back
row—Arden Wolfe.
He hadn’t changed much. Taller, maybe. Shoulders broader.
His dark eyes still held that same, careful sadness—the kind that made you
think he’d memorized every word you ever said.
They spoke afterward under the weeping cedar by the gate.
“I’m sorry, Elena.”
“I know,” she said. “Thanks for coming.”
They stood in silence, awkward as strangers and familiar as
blood. She hadn’t expected him to be there, but part of her had hoped. Maybe
more than part.
“Still writing?” she asked.
“Yeah. You still playing?”
“Sometimes.”
Another silence. Then a nod, a quick hug, and he disappeared
down the hill like a ghost in a gray coat.
Chapter 2 – The Gallery
It was Luca she met by accident.
The gallery was a modest white building near the harbor,
known for showcasing local artists. Her mother had once performed there during
summer concerts. Now, they were hosting a remembrance night, and the curator
had asked Elena to play.
She sat at the grand piano in a navy dress, her hair swept
back like her mother used to wear it. The first note trembled. The second
followed like a breath held too long. By the time she reached the fifth
measure, her hands had stopped shaking.
In the third row, a man leaned forward, watching her as if
the song were a story only he could understand. He had tousled chestnut hair,
paint-smeared cuffs, and a presence that pulled at the air.
Afterward, he approached her near the wine table.
“You made the keys cry,” he said.
She raised an eyebrow. “Is that good or bad?”
“Beautiful. I’m Luca. I paint sad things.”
“Elena. I play them.”
They laughed, and the gallery seemed smaller, warmer. He
asked if she wanted to see his studio sometime. She said maybe. She didn’t say
yes.
Not yet.
Continue...............
No comments:
Post a Comment