Page 73 of A Whisper of Cinders

I let both of them in my heart. Aramis broke down my walls with so much ease. He was a balm for the pain of losing a friend that felt more like family, and maybe even filled the gap a little. And after knowing Amira for five years, I wasn’t expecting her to do something like this, fake her own death. Why would you do that to a friend?

The distance between us feels like an ocean. I rise on shaky legs, wrapping my arms around myself, as if that might help to hold all my broken pieces together. And when I look at them both standing next to each other, I can’t believe I was so blind while the evidence is so obvious.

“I…I’m sorry, I can’t…”

I storm past them through the door, hearing them call out my name, but no one follows me.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

She is alive. She is alive. She is alive.

If I wouldn’t have seen her — touched her — only seconds ago, I wouldn’t believe it myself. She is alive. I should be happy, and deep down, I am. But at the same time, I’ve never felt so…betrayed.

The fact that it’s not only by the one I’ve known the longest, but also by someone I let in so easily, cracks my heart in two. And they are twins. How did I not see that?

At the edge of pulling my hair out, I find myself standing in the centre of the dojo. I’m surprised my mind and body has led me here, but at the same time, is there a better way to let out my emotions than by punching something?

To my relief, I’m alone and the lights in the equipment room turn on automatically as I enter. The punching bag stands in the middle of the room, as if it’s been placed there for me on purpose.

I don’t bother putting on gloves, but make sure I don’t tug my thumb in, remembering Conláed’s words very clearly; “It’s not because you’re weak that you can’t break your thumb by punching like that.” The concern might have warmed my heart, if not for the beginning of his sentence.

I take the correct stance and start punching. I don’t know how long I hit the bag with a technique Conláed would probably scold me for, but the nape of my neck is soaked, so is my T-shirt and sweat runs down my face. As I try to untangle the mess that is my mind and fail miserably every single time, pain starts to break through the haze.

I stop.

I become aware of my surroundings, still alone thankfully, but the wind I thought I heard bellowing outside, is actually my laboured breath. My arms tremble and as I stare at the punching bag, I notice flecks of red on it.

My fingers twitch, which causes me more pain than I was anticipating. I take in my hands, noticing how the skin has split open at several places, and is already turning a blueish purple shade. The ache I currently feel isn’t a good omen for what tomorrow will probably bring.

I rest my head against the bag and take a few deep breaths, only to let it all out in a scream that rumbles the ground. Or it at least feels that way.

Not wanting to drip blood all around the place, I head over to one of the sinks and let the water run over my hands. It stains red immediately, but other than that, I can’t say I really feel the sting as the water hits the open wounds.

When the water runs clean, restlessness still pushes against my skin and I leave the dojo behind, thinking the library might bring me some peace. Although…I don’t think my mind can focus long enough to disappear into a book, but the environment might calm my racing mind and —

I halt mid walk as I pass the restaurant. Students hang around, but that’s not the reason why I stopped. It feels like a golden thread sprouts from my chest, near my heart, to something that lays beyond the doors of the restaurant.

Following my intuition, I push open the door, pass the dining area and nearly run down the stairs that lead to the area underneath the mezzanine.

A pinch in my shoulder makes me turn around, and there stands the most magnificent classic piano I have ever seen. How did I miss the grand instrument the last time I was here?

I let my finger glide over the smooth surface of the wing before sitting down behind the keys. Fragments of me playing the piano used to occasionally rise to the surface. Time to find out how skilled I am after all those years. I press a single key and the sound reverberates through the whole room.

And although most of my past is still a mystery, I do know playing this magnificent instrument used to bring me joy. Maybe it can be a balm for my beaten-up heart.

With a fluttering heartbeat but surprisingly steady hands, I let my fingers float above the keys before gently lowering them. The notes sound hesitant in the beginning, but it only lasts for a couple of seconds. A familiar melody rises, although I can’t remember where I’ve heard it before.

A single tear falls down my cheek, and I close my eyes, and get completely lost in the soft notes. My hands hurt as my fingers move, but I push through it, because what is a little pain when you can create something so beautiful?

As I play the last note, I open my eyes and take a deep breath. Some of the weight lifted off my chest, the ache and betrayal are still there, but I can breathe a little easier. A tingling, burning sensation erupts at the base of my neck, followed by the sound of an applause only a second later.

“That was some nice music, little feather. Where did you learn to do that?”

I swallow. I think I might fall off this bench. Conláed was watching me and I didn’t even notice until now. The universe is not on my side today.

I lazily run a finger across the keys, producing a soft tune. “I played when I was little, but I haven’t touched a piano in years.”

“Why did you stop?”