It was another sleepless night. Eddie sat upright on his bed, his body too alert to fall asleep. He reached for his phone. Before he could type out a message and send it to Michelle, he held himself back and locked his phone. He should not disturb her; she could be sleeping. Eddie placed his phone back on his bedside table and leaned against the headboard.

His mind rewound to the moment she asked him to play their favorite nocturne. Sadness rose in his heart as he recalled seeing bafflement and guilt in her eyes. He knew she loved the piece as much as he used to, that she meant no harm, yet when she uttered its name, a flood of memories flashed in his mind and rendered him unable to play it for her.

An idea popped up in his head. Perhaps, if he were to learn to play the piece, he could replace its bitter memories with a happier one. It was more than doable; he could play all three movements of "Gaspard de la Nuit"—and do so at the age of sixteen! The nocturne should be unchallenging. He rose from the bed and made his way to the music room.

He arrived a short while later, and the first thing he did was take a long glimpse at the Bösendorfer. Its empty stool was pushed out of its regular resting spot as if it was expecting him. Eddie sighed. I will do this.

Eddie lit a few flames and suspended them in the air like floating lanterns; if he turned on the lights, it would be too bright for him. He strode towards a shelf and picked a folder of sheet music. He read the label, checking if it was the correct folder, then flicked through pages and booklets until they landed on a thin bundle: the Op. 9 Chopin nocturnes. He extracted a score from the bundle, returned the folder to the shelf, then paced toward the piano.

Eddie set the pages against the rack before he took a seat. He glimpsed the name: Nocturne en Mi Bémol Majeur, Op. 9 No. 2. Its name was enough to make him shudder, but he shrugged it off and leaned closer to study the score. The piece was far easier than the hardest piece in his repertoire, so he could play it. He must play it.

His fingers reached for the keys, a familiar coldness greeting their tips as they landed on the ivory surfaces. This was it. Eddie breathed, exhaled, and pressed the first note. I can play it, he told himself. I can play it.

The past seized him from behind and dragged him back to his Parisian home. It was practice time, which was an hour after the end of dinner. Eight-year-old Eddie carried a set of sheet music as he sauntered toward the Steinway. After placing the pages on the rack, he lifted the lid, kept the felt keyboard cover, and took a seat.

His father eyed him from the comfort of his armchair. "What are you practicing?"

"Nocturne No. 2 by Chopin. I managed to figure out the melody on my own," Little Eddie beamed. He played a few notes with his right hand.

His father smiled. "Very good! So you want to try playing the whole piece?"

"Yup!"

"Wonderful, go ahead."

Little Eddie straightened his posture as he adjusted his seating position, moving the stool around millimeter by millimeter. He looked at the sheet music. There were three flats written after the clefs, which was not a lot—a month earlier, he sight-read a piece with three sharps without much difficulty. The time signature was twelve-eight, which was not too hard for him either. He could do it. He could definitely do it. Little Eddie squinted as he read the first measure, then his hand followed suit.

Not even a minute into the piece and his finger pressed a wrong note, producing a dissonant chord. Little Eddie froze. He glanced over his shoulder, meeting his father's attentive stare. He turned around and reread the notes. Of course, he pressed a B instead of a B-Flat. Little Eddie repositioned his hands and tried again.

Another wrong note erupted soon after he started his second attempt. Again? Little Eddie leaned forward as he took a closer look at the page. It was the same mistake: B-Flat, not B. He sighed out of frustration, then began another attempt.

Little Eddie never passed the eighth measure without making a mistake of some sort. His eyes would misinterpret the notes, his fingers would slip from the keys, his hands would be out of sync. He could not comprehend it; he had listened to it countless times, to the point of becoming as familiar as the alphabet. Gravity pulled harder at the corners of his lips as he failed again, and again, and again.

His father stood up and walked to his side, resting a hand on Little Eddie's shoulder. "Edmond, this is a hard piece. You don't have to learn it now."

"I can," Little Eddie insisted, "I'm almost there."

Another error arose from his playing. Little Eddie lifted his hands off the keyboard and rested them on his lap, his head hanging low in defeat. His eyes moistened.

"It's okay, I only learned to play it when I was thirteen. You're just eight years old. You'll play it someday, I'm sure of it."

Little Eddie nodded and wiped away a tear. His father was right. Perhaps he was not ready for it yet. Perhaps he would never be.

No, no!

Eddie jerked his head as he fought against his memories. He was sixteen, not half his age. He had mastered "La Campanella." He knew "Hammerklavier" by heart. The nocturne should be much more than playable for a pianist like him. The past plucked him from his spot once more, dropping him off at the house of a childhood friend.

It had been a few months since Little Eddie first attempted the nocturne. He was attending a birthday party and had just presented a gift to the celebrant. While wandering around the house searching for his best friend, Thomas, a familiar tune echoed through the air. His ears perked up—he knew exactly what it was.

Nocturne in E-Flat Major, Op. 9 No. 2.

Little Eddie traced it to a large chamber nearby. There was a crowd surrounding where the sound came from. He slipped through them in hopes of seeing the performer, expecting to see an adult or adolescent.

Yet, seated at the upright piano was a boy who was younger than him.

Little Eddie looked in disbelief as he witnessed the young boy gliding his fingers across the keyboard, playing the nocturne without a single sheet of paper in front of his eyes. The little boy had to be no older than six; Little Eddie could tell from his face and his overall size. His hands seemed too small to play such chords, and his legs too short to reach the pedals, yet he executed each note without any error. Little Eddie considered it unreachable. His own father did not touch it till he was more mature. Yet, here he was, watching a mere child playing it in front of him.

After the performer was done, the audience clapped and cheered. Of course, it's perfect. Little Eddie only stood still as he tried to digest what he had just witnessed, and while his mind was busy processing the event, his ears recognized a familiar voice among the chorus of compliments.

Thomas gasped. "That was so good!"

The little boy smiled. "Ah, thank you," he said. "I still have a lot of mistakes. I only played the part without any."

"Haha, I can understand! But wow, that part is amazing. It sounds so professional. Well, I don't play the piano, so what do I know." Thomas then turned his head, his eyes widening upon seeing Little Eddie's face. "Eddie! Your favorite nocturne! He played your favorite nocturne!"

Little Eddie forced a smile. "Yup, it is." He then turned to the little boy. "You play very well."

A cascade of past failures burst a dam in Little Eddie's mind and flooded his headspace. Knots twisted and tightened in his chest. He could not help it. He knew very well that the boy deserved every compliment, but each display of admiration only drove the knife deeper into his heart. Stop feeling bad, he told himself, but the pain would not dissipate. Little Eddie was hurt, and he hated the fact that he was hurt—he should not be hurt, nobody meant to hurt him at all. Then why was he aching deep inside?

"You must be really advanced," Little Eddie said. "You can memorize three pages of sheet music at that age."

"Oh, I don't know how to sight-play."

Little Eddie's jaw dropped. "Y-you can't sight-read?"

"I only know how to play. I only started learning how to sight-play last year."

An invisible force crushed his heart—he was worse than a little boy who could barely read music, if at all! Little Eddie had been trained by one of the best tutors since he was five, and she told him that he was advanced for his age. If he were as gifted as she said, how could a young child play his favorite nocturne better than him with hardly any classical training? That can't be true. But the boy did not appear to be lying.

"Eddie, you also play piano," Thomas said. "Can you play something?"

A force choked his insides. "I'm not good." Not as good as him.

"Sure you are! Come on."

Thomas placed a hand on Little Eddie's back and shoved him towards the instrument. The little boy stood up and offered him the seat. Little Eddie looked around, hoping to escape, but all eyes had fallen on him. There was no turning back. Little Eddie gulped as he took a seat and spread his hands. His blood ran cold upon touching the ivories, his fingers hesitant to move.

He could not afford to make a mistake. They had already been delivered a perfect performance, and he should not give any less. Little Eddie wondered which piece he should play. A simple song would be unimpressive; a flashier one carried the risk of errors. Mozart, Sonata No. 16 in C Major, Third Movement. A sinking feeling weighed down his gut as he positioned his hands on the piano, hoping he did not make a poor choice.

Then he began. The keys quivered as his fingers shook, as though a chilly wind was blowing on them, a breath so cold that even his forearms rattled. Fear spiked in Little Eddie. He was trembling, and he had never trembled that badly before. Tremors ran from shoulder to fingertip, and though the sound was not sacrificed, he could slip to a wrong key any moment now with the amount of shaking he was experiencing.

Little Eddie grew less nervous after half a minute of playing, but his fingers did not flow with his usual flexibility. No mistake. No mistake.

A stray note rang through the air. Little Eddie's hairs stood on end once he realized what he had done.

He committed a mistake, in front of a crowd.

Little Eddie powered through the piece, hoping that nobody noticed. He glanced out the corner of his eye. His lips quivered upon noticing an audience member's raised eyebrow.

Someone noticed.

Stop it!

Eddie brought himself back to the present, determined to play the piece from start to finish. He was more than halfway done. He could make it. He should make it. His memories pushed themselves to the front of his mind, bringing him back to his past.

It had been a few days since the incident at the birthday party. Little Eddie was lounging on a sofa, using the living room speakers to listen to classical music. After a while, Little Eddie picked up the album and checked the next piece on the tracklist.

Nocturne in E-Flat Major, Op. 9 No. 2.

The piece poured out of the speakers and overwhelmed him through his ears. Flashbacks flooded his mind. The time when he failed repeatedly in front of his father. The day a prodigy impressed an audience by flawlessly performing his favorite nocturne. The moment he messed up in front of a crowd.

Little Eddie reached for the remote and stopped the track. He ejected the disk from the music player, turned off the sound system, and kept the album in the cabinet. He then left the living room and began climbing up the stairs.

His father, who was on his way to the living room, gave him a funny look. "Where are you going?"

"To my room. I'm sleepy."

"Ah, but weren't you listening to your favorite nocturne?"

Little Eddie did not answer. He turned his back and resumed trodding up the staircase.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Papa. I'm fine."

"Edmond—"

"I'm fine."

His father said no more.

Little Eddie reached the next floor, entered his room, and closed the door behind him. Now away from other eyes, he ran to his bed and curled into a ball, resting a fist on his chest. He could not handle it—he could not handle playing it, he could not handle listening to it, he could not even handle the mention of its very name. The joy that it once brought him had vanished, its place usurped by dolor. His tears moistened the pillow as they rolled down his cheek.

I said, stop it!

Eddie seized control of his mind as he focused on the final page. He would not let anyone or anything stop him, not even himself. His fingers labored on the keyboard as his eyes skimmed the bars. Almost there. Almost there. He could finish it. He must.

At last, his hands spread to play the final chords. A heavy burden lifted off his shoulders once he heard a familiar end ring through the room, the result of his work. He sat, motionless, absorbing every sound he made. He did it.

The tension in his chest escaped him through a heavy sigh. He lowered his forearms onto the keyboard, buried his face in them, and wept, a trail of tears trickling down his skin and dampening the keys. Sorrow. Pain. Yearning. Triumph. Release. Everything he had bottled inside his being broke free. His body remained still as he bathed in silence, broken only by his shaky breathing.

Ring, ring. Eddie lifted his head to look to his right. Louis was levitating not far from him, his phone resting on its jacket.

"Your dad's calling," it informed. It tossed his phone towards him.

Eddie caught his phone. Before he picked up the call, he slowed his breathing in an attempt to compose himself. He tapped his screen and held up the phone to his right ear. "Allô?"

"Allô, my son!" his father chirped. "I thought you'd be sleeping already."

"I've been having trouble sleeping," Eddie said. He grabbed the hem of his shirt and wiped his face. "Anyway, what time is it there?"

"It's a few minutes past six. It's around midnight back home, right?"

"Right."

"Wow, that's quite late. So how are the guests? Are they enjoying their stay?"

"They are. All of them—well, except for José and Celestine—were impressed when I picked them up from the airport and took them home. They're all very happy."

"That's good to hear. Sorry I couldn't be there with all of you," he apologized. "I wish I could."

"It's fine, dad," Eddie said. He then asked, "How's New York?"

His father let out a tired sigh. "Very hectic. I've been attending meetings here and there, couldn't go around the city that much. I only managed to call your mom a few hours ago."

"Mhmm."

"By the way, are you alone right now?"

"Ouais, I'm alone. Why?"

"I was thinking if you could pick me up if you know what I mean."

Eddie nodded and hung up on his father. He then told Louis, "Pick up my dad."

Flash. In an instant, his father appeared in the music room. Though Eddie inherited half of his genes from his father, he bore almost no resemblance to him. Eddie's hair was golden blond; his father's hair was a rich, dark brown. Eddie's eyes were blue with a bit of green; his father's eyes were round and reminiscent of chestnut. Eddie had a straight mouth and a straighter nose; his father had fuller lips and a hooked nose. Eddie was bloodless in both complexion and comportment; his father was sun-kissed and sanguine. Their only outward similarities were their tall figures, slim physiques, and oval faces.

"My son!" Eddie's father strode towards him and enveloped him in an embrace. "I miss you."

"I... can't... breathe."

"Oh, sorry." His father released him. He then glanced at the Bösendorfer. "Ah, so you were practicing."

"Mhmm, I was."

"Which piece?"

"Chopin, Nocturne en Mi Bémol Majeur, Op. 9 No. 2."

"Ah, your favorite nocturne! It's been a long time since you've last mentioned it," he commented.

Eddie nodded. "It has."

"Is it okay if you play it for me, please? I want to listen."

"Sure. Just give me a second."

Eddie straightened his posture and relaxed his arms, his eyes focused on the pages. He started.

His left thumb slipped from a black key to a white key. Eddie halted at once—a mistake. He gulped. "Sorry," he said to his father, though he spoke as if he were talking to himself, and then he restarted.

Eddie repositioned his hands and played from the beginning. He was careful to not rush. Slowly, slowly, but not too slowly. Andante, not adagio. At a walking pace. His eyes did not dare to leave the page or the keyboard.

His right fingers tickled a trill, then his right ring finger missed another black key. Another mistake. "Sorry," he mouthed, but he went on. At the back of his mind, he was hoping and praying that he would not slip up some more. He was still on the first page and he had committed two errors already.

Eddie glanced at his hands before he returned to reading the sheet music. He then frowned; he had accented the wrong note. He sighed. That was the third error, and it likely would not be the last. Eddie shook his head slightly and resumed playing, determined to finish no matter how many mistakes he would commit.

His hands tensed. Relax, relax, he reminded himself. He let his wrists move more freely. His fingers then grew more flexible as they graced the keys, his right foot pedaling in perfect sync. Eddie squinted at the sheet music. Crescendo. He pounded the keys with more force, his right hand hitting harder to bring out the melody more.

Eddie felt his body lighten as he grew more comfortable with his playing. Soon, halfway through the second page, he was close to being his confident self. Though he was tempted to pour out his heart into every note he played, he restrained himself; he knew better than to spoil the piece with such mawkishness. Instead, he wove touches of sentiment into his melodies. Expressively sweet, as instructed, but not overly so. Every crescendo and diminuendo, every rubato and ritardando, he executed with careful consideration. He played the piece like how he would carry himself—with quiet reservation.

The end was near. His right hand reached toward a high octave and played a series of grace notes. Light, fast, louder, then softer. His left hand lay waiting at the other end of the keyboard. Soon his right fingers descended, going softer and slower before his left hand rejoined its companion. A series of soft chords marked the end of the performance.

Eddie glanced to his right. His father was staring slackjawed at him, still and speechless. Eddie hoped his speechlessness was out of awe, though he was more sure that it was out of disappointment. He counted more than five mistakes in his flawed performance. For someone as old and experienced as him, he should have performed better.

"So, how was it?"

"Edmond, I'm speechless."

"I know, it was unbelievably bad—"

"No, no, that was beautiful," his father praised him, to Eddie's immense surprise. "Everything was phenomenal—your phrasing, your pacing, your pedaling. I especially liked your dynamics. Very sublime. You also had just the right amount of sentimentality, like it was not cheesy, but also not cold and overly technical if you know what I mean. I could really hear the passion from your playing. I don't know why you've never played it for us."

Eddie showed a faint smile. "Thanks, dad."

"I know I've said this countless times, but you really are a gifted musician."

"Thanks. I'm not as good as you, though."

Eddie's father raised an eyebrow. "Pardon?"

"I'm not as good as you, dad," Eddie repeated. The corners of his lips fell. "You're literally one of the best in the world. You've made the finals of the International Piano Competition for Outstanding Amateurs. You have a repertoire as broad as Ashkenazy's—could've been a concert pianist like him if you wanted to. Me? I only learned to play this now and now I'm what, almost seventeen? I didn't even play it perfectly; I made so many mistakes. You played this at thirteen. I, I, I'm simply not on your level."

Eddie turned his head to face the piano, a frown weighing down his face.

"Edmond."

Eddie felt a light pressure as his father laid a hand on his shoulder. He looked up, his gaze meeting his father's piercing stare. A sigh escaped from the latter's lips.

"You're right, you're not as good as me," his father told him. "You're better than me."

Eddie raised his eyebrows. "Really?"

"Really. You know, every time I saw you practice, you'd always be deeply frustrated whenever you hit a wrong note, even if you were playing a piece for the first time. I've seen you like this since you were still small. But my son, what you were playing at eleven, I first played when I was sixteen. Even if you hit wrong notes while practicing, the fact that you could already play such a piece at a young age already puts you above me.

"And speaking of wrong notes, though accuracy is still very important, that's only half of making music. What matters just as much, if not more, is how you play those notes. That's another thing you're better than me at: your artistry. Some people can play complicated pieces, but they don't necessarily play them well. You do. Even though you may not think you're as good, I think you play extremely well. You make even the simplest pieces sound so beautiful, and everything you play has a certain quality to it. That, to me, is more impressive. Even if you did commit errors in your playing just now, let me tell you this: I'd rather listen to that than perfectly precise yet soulless interpretations.

"And even if you're not talented, that doesn't mean I'll love you less. You're my son. Prodigy or not, I'll love you regardless."

Eddie nodded, a tear trickling from his right eye. "Thanks, dad."

His father retrieved a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his tear away. "Are you done?"

Eddie gave a small nod, yet more tears trickled down his cheek.

"No you're not. Come here."

He stepped toward his son and enveloped him in a loving embrace, one hand patting his back as he consoled him. Eddie buried his face into his father's chest—if he were to cry, the least he could do was not show his sorry face. A wet patch grew on the man's shirt.

Eddie sniffled. "Sorry."

"For what?"

Eddie shook his head, not knowing what to say.

"You did nothing wrong," his father said, hugging him tighter. "It's okay. You're okay."

He cried harder.

Eddie's father caressed the back of his head and said nothing more. The air shivered with the sounds of his sobbing and shuddering breath, and Eddie hated it. He hated crying in front of someone, he hated crying in front of someone though he was no longer a child, he hated having to be consoled by someone else as he cried. He was supposed to be cool and composed, yet here he was. A mess of a man.

Once the weeping began to cease, Eddie lifted his gaze to look up at him. Instead of judgment or annoyance, what he received was a look of compassion and understanding.

"Better now?"

Eddie nodded. His father kissed his forehead before he released his embrace. "Sorry."

"Sorry for?"

"For... making your shirt wet."

His father chortled. "Oh, don't worry about that. I have a million shirts. Are you sorry for crying?"

"Uh, maybe."

"Don't be sorry for crying. I used to think that crying was only for the weak, too. But then I realized that I was wrong. Real men cry too."

Eddie bowed his head a bit. The tears had dried up, but a frown still framed his face.

"Hey, let's cheer you up. How about a father-son duet, you and I?"

"Sure. Something from Debussy's Petite Suite?"

"Don't you think that's a bit easy for people of our caliber?" his father said, smiling.

"Hmmm, I guess so," Eddie agreed. "How about Rachmaninoff's Scherzo from his Six Morceaux?"

"That's more like it. I'll be on the left; you'll be on the right."

Eddie scooted to the right side of the bench. His father took a seat, both of his feet on the floor.

"Do you need the sheet music?" his father asked.

"I memorized it actually."

"Of course you would. We'll start whenever you're ready."

Eddie took a deep breath and hovered his hands over the piano. He and his father exchanged glances. Eddie nodded, signaling their start, and pressed the first notes. His father followed soon after, hammering a chord.

Their frisky fingers danced as they sprang from one set of keys to another. It was at that point that they learned that they were not the most harmonious duo. Eddie would move his arm to make way for his father only to knock his hand by accident. Sometimes his father missed his turn or played at a pace too fast. Occasionally their feet would reach for the same pedal, stepping on someone's foot instead of a piece of metal. Eddie's father only laughed off each mistake they made as they played.

After the performance, his father chortled. "I guess we're better off as soloists."

"Well, we haven't been playing that many duets, have we?" Eddie smiled. "Uh, can I ask you something?"

"Sure, go ahead."

"So, I was talking to Jon—José's son—and he mentioned that my uncle was cured of cancer. However, you told me that he died of lung cancer. When I told him that, he said something along the lines of 'Oh, they didn't tell you?' "

His father bit his lip. "It's true. He was cured of lung cancer."

"Then how did he die?"

"I don't remember how he died. I think he either burned to death or was consumed by a cloud of dark magic, I think the latter? Either way, his death was unnatural, and they needed to cover up the cause. What José did was reverse the healing process—he planted tumors in your uncle's body to make it seem like he died of lung cancer."

Eddie gasped. "He can cause tumors?"

"Only ones that used to exist, I think. Don't tell anyone else about it. I only know because, you know, he died, and someone in our family has to make sure you get your training."

"Oh. Uh, can I ask you another question?"

"What is it?"

"Do you know anyone named Luciano Vincente?"

His father raised an eyebrow. "Who's that?"

"He's Stella's father; the brother-in-law of Celestine," Eddie replied. "I overheard Letizia saying that he's an investment banker in one of Italy's top banks."

"Italian investment banker? Oh, I think I know him. I remember meeting someone with that name in Rome."

"Yes, that's what she said. She also said you would call each other frequently to discuss projects."

"Call each other frequently? I never called him."

"Huh? She made it appear like you two were close."

"Ah, she must be mistaken. The only reason I know him is because we happened to attend the same conference. He likely talked about it to her and she must've misconstrued it as us being close."

"So, you two don't talk to each other at all?"

"No, we don't communicate at all. Not as far as I remember."

"Oh." A bitter feeling brewed in Eddie's chest. She lied. He straightened his face in an attempt to conceal his acrimony.

His father glanced at his watch. "I'm sorry, son, but I have to go," he said. "Can you get Louis to teleport me back?"

"Sure. Louis, teleport my dad back."

Louis appeared out of the blue and fluttered to his father's side. Before he left, his father pecked him on the cheek. "Goodnight, my son."

"Goodnight."

Flash. Eddie found himself alone once more—or so he thought. His senses tingled as they detected someone near his presence. He turned his head to face the door.

Stella was standing still, leaning sideways so that her upper body was visible through the doorway. Of course. She, too, sometimes practiced in the middle of the night. He supposed that she had just arrived, and from the look of surprise on her face, he could tell that she saw his father.

"You can come in," Eddie told her.

She set foot inside the music room. "I saw someone sitting next to you. Was that your dad?" she asked.

He merely nodded.

"Was that Damien de Bellefort?"

He nodded once more. Stella's eyes widened.

"As in, the billionaire?"

"Billionaire, businessman, investor, patron of several foundations, chairman and CEO of Lucide S.A.," Eddie added. "Yeah, he's my dad."

"Oh. But you said your dad's name is Antoine, and your last name is Delacroix."

"My father's name is Damien Jean-Marie Antoine Delacroix de Bellefort. Our surname is Delacroix de Bellefort."

"Oh."

"I know, it's a mouthful."

"So, your name is Edmond Delacroix de Bellefort?"

"Edmond Jean Michel Louis Delacroix de Bellefort. Yeah, it's also long."

Stella fidgeted. "Actually, I had a feeling he was your dad."

"Really?" Eddie raised an eyebrow. "How so?"

"Well, when I read your uncle's books, I noticed how his last name was de Bellefort, and I wondered if he was related to Damien de Bellefort. I went to his Wikipedia page and saw that they were brothers. I then read Damien's Wikipedia page, and it said that he has a son named Edmond."

Of course she'd check Wikipedia. "So you knew this whole time?"

"I wasn't sure because you didn't tell me if Brandon was from your mother's or father's side." She averted his gaze. "I also thought maybe you wanted to hide it."

The air was still.

"Ehm, why didn't you tell us you were Damien de Bellefort's son?"

"The same reason why you didn't know I was wealthy until I brought you here. I wanted to make sure you liked me for who I am, not what I have or who I'm related to," Eddie said. He exhaled. "When you're in my position, some people see you as a walking wallet or status symbol rather than a person. They don't like you; they like your 'benefits,' like name-dropping you in conversations so they can impress others even if they barely know you.

"Or they judge you before they get to know you because apparently all rich people are evil snobs who don't deserve what they have. It doesn't matter whether you work like hell or not, they'll still think that you only get things because of money or connections.

"It happened to my dad. It happened to my mom. It happened to me too, and I'm tired of it. I don't want people to judge me just because I'm rich; that's why I hid it from you at first."

"Well, I don't see you that way."

"I know you don't. That's why I let you stay here instead of letting you book a room at a hotel. I don't invite just anyone." He then gestured to the piano. "You want to practice?"

"I was thinking of practicing the violin."

"Oh, sure. Just pick one up from the shelf over there."

Stella strolled towards the shelf and reached for a violin case. While she prepared her instrument, Eddie used his telekinesis to unfold a music stand for her. He lit a few more flames so that she could see her surroundings more clearly.

"What piece do you want to practice, by the way?" he asked.

"I don't know," she replied. "I just feel like practicing."

"Hmm, I know a duet we can play. Have you heard of Romance in D Minor, Op. 6 No. 1 by Rachmaninoff?"

She shook her head. "I haven't."

"It's a beautiful piece; it's one of my favorite piano-violin duets. I think you'll like it."

"Oh." She tilted her head. "Is it hard?"

"It's not hard," he said. "It's simple."

Eddie waved his hand. Sheet music flew from a folder and landed on Stella's music stand. She squinted at it.

"I can sight-read this."

"I'm sure you can. We start at three?"

"Sure." She sandwiched the instrument between her chin and shoulder. "I'm ready."

"Okay. One, two, three."

Eddie rolled his fingers across the keys, his head facing Stella so he could listen to her more clearly. She bowed soon after. He adjusted his pace to match her tempo. His eyes and ears scrutinized her playing as they duetted, and he noticed that she was much more fluid on the violin than on the piano. She was better than he remembered; her tempo was just right, her phrasing was fantastic, and her dynamics were on point. Why did he not notice her skill before? He then remembered that the only time he heard her play was when she and Jon played together, and the latter was a prodigy, which made her obviously inferior compared to him. Still, on her own, she was not bad at all. Though Eddie did detect an error or two in her playing, he had to admit that she played well.

After the piece ended, Stella lowered her violin. "It's really nice."

"It is, isn't it?" Eddie said. He turned around so that he faced her. "You're very good on the violin."

"Really?"

"Yes, you are."

"Oh, thanks," she said, blushing. "I never thought I was good."

"Nonsense. You played well, especially considering how you've never touched this before." Eddie then yawned. "I'm going to bed now. Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

Eddie stood up, pushed in the stool, and lowered the lid. He sauntered towards the doorway. His eyes glimpsed the light switch.

"I'll turn on the lights," he told her.

"Oh, thank you."

"You're welcome. By the way, can you please not tell anyone who my dad is?"

"Sure. I won't tell anyone."

"Especially your mom."

"I won't."

"Thanks." He raised a hand and waved. "Good night."

"Good night."

With a flick of his wrist, Eddie switched on the lights and extinguished his flames. He strolled towards his bedroom, his body feeling lighter than before. The nocturne played in his head. His lips curled into a smile. That night brought him a new memory, and with it, a reclaimed bliss.

✧ ✧ ✧

As you can see, Chopin's Nocturne Op. 9 No. 2 means a lot to Eddie—and it means a lot to me too ❤️ Do you have a piece or song that means a ton to you, and if you do, what is it?

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