Chapter 3 - THE SONG ELENA COULDN’T FINISH
Roman refused to tell Elena everything at once. He said he needed to
verify the old security records before placing another burden on her.
She called that an elegant way of saying he wanted to make decisions for
her.
“You don’t get to protect me by keeping me ignorant,” she told him.
He accepted the criticism without answering.
That afternoon, I found Elena staring at the piano. The instrument was a
polished black grand piano, kept immaculate by the house staff. A framed
photograph rested on top: Elena at seventeen, standing between her
mother and Roman. All three were smiling.
“Do you play?” I asked.
“I used to.”
“What happened?”
She looked at her hands. “The last song I played with my mother was
interrupted by the crash. I haven’t been able to finish it.”
I sat on the bench beside her, leaving space between us.
“Would you like to try?”
“No.”
“Would you like me to sit here while you don’t?”
She gave me a tired look. Then, after a long silence, she placed her
fingers on the keys.
The first notes came slowly. She missed one, stopped, and pulled her
hands back.
“I can’t.”
“You don’t have to get it right.”
“That’s easy for you to say.”
“No, it isn’t.”
She glanced at my left knee. The brace was hidden beneath my trousers,
but the edge showed when I shifted.
“What happened?”
“I was a dancer. Ballroom. My ex-husband was driving when we had an
accident. He was drunk. I was in the passenger seat. My knee was crushed
against the dashboard.”
“Did he get hurt?”
“He walked away.”
Elena’s expression changed. “And left you?”
“He left before the ambulance arrived. Then he used my name to borrow
money while I was in rehabilitation.”
She looked down at the keys. “I’m sorry.”
“I used to think my life ended in that car. It didn’t. It just became a
different life.”
Elena touched one key.
“Maybe that’s what I need to learn.”
“Maybe.”
We worked on the song for nearly an hour. I did not correct her. I only
counted the rhythm softly and let her stop whenever she needed. When she
finally reached the end of the first phrase, she looked startled.
“I did it.”
“You did.”
She smiled, small but real.
Roman watched from the doorway. He did not interrupt. Later, he asked me
to teach Elena three afternoons a week, with a therapist’s approval and
no pressure to perform.
I agreed.
That evening, Daniel brought a report from the old audit. Caleb had been
paid by a shell company that once handled a private archive for Roman’s
mother. The payment had been labeled “personal property recovery.”
Roman read the page twice.
“What property?”
Daniel placed a photograph on the desk. It showed a small silver music
box, shaped like a birdcage.
Elena recognized it immediately.
“Mother’s music box.”
Roman looked at her. “Do you know where it is?”
“She kept it in the music room. It disappeared after the funeral.”
A memory surfaced. I remembered the photograph on the piano, the
mother’s hand resting on a tiny silver object.
“Could the song be connected to it?” I asked.
Elena shook her head. “It’s just a music box.”
Roman stared at the old payment record.
“Caleb came here looking for it,” he said. “And someone paid him to find
it.”
He looked at me.
“Your ex-husband may know where it went.”
My phone vibrated.
May you like
A message from an unknown number appeared.
I can give you the music box. Come alone.
