Chapter 5

I walked aimlessly down the streets.

Since I lost my hearing, the world had become completely silent. At first, it drove me crazy. But now, it felt safe.

At least in the silence, I couldn't hear the pitying whispers or the cruel comments.

As I passed a music store, a vintage piano in the window caught my eye.

I suddenly remembered that before the fire, I used to play.

My mother always told me my fingers were made for the keys.

But after the accident, those same fingers were only used for clumsy sign language. Or to feel Julian's promises traced on my palm.

I pushed the door open and walked in.

The owner, a kind, middle-aged man, smiled and walked over to me.

He started speaking, but I pointed to my ears and shook my head.

He understood instantly. Smiling warmly, he handed me a notepad and a pen.

[Want to try it out?] he wrote.

I pointed to the vintage piano.

[Go ahead. Give it a play,] he encouraged.

I sat down at the piano, placing my fingers on the cool keys.

It felt so familiar.

I pressed a key.

Silence.

At least, to my ears. But I could feel the vibration ripple through my fingertips, sending a sweet shiver up my arm.

I began to play.

It was the opening of Beethoven’s "Pathétique Sonata", Second Movement.

Before the fire, it was my favorite piece. Gentle, yet incredibly resilient.

Now, I could only play it through memory and the physical vibration of the keys.

The owner stood nearby, quietly watching me.

When I finished, even though I couldn't hear a thing, I saw him clapping enthusiastically.

He quickly wrote on the pad: [That was beautiful. You play with so much soul.]

I smiled, feeling a bit embarrassed.

"Can a deaf person really play with soul?"

Maybe Beethoven could, but I was no genius.

[Thank you,] I wrote back, standing up to leave.

But the owner stopped me. He wrote: [Would you like a job here? Just light cleaning, organizing sheet music, and playing for customers who want to hear the instruments?]

I stared at the note, stunned.

[I can tell you love music,] he added. [And it's very quiet here. I think you'd like it.]

Looking into his kind, honest eyes, something inside me stirred.

Maybe... just maybe, I could start over. On my own.

I took the job.

My new life at the shop was simple and peaceful. I cleaned, organized, and helped customers. Even though I couldn't hear the tones of the pianos, I memorized the unique characteristics of every model.

The owner, Arthur Hayes, was incredibly patient.

He never treated me differently because of my scars or my deafness. He only praised my hard work.

In my free time, I sat at the vintage piano and practiced.

My ears were broken, but my muscle memory was perfect.

Arthur told me that watching me play was a joy.

[Your fingers are dancing,] he wrote one day.

I was genuinely happy. I loved the scent of wood polish in the air, and the solid, grounding feel of the piano keys.

Until the day Julian found me.

He stood in the doorway, the sunlight casting a long, thin shadow behind him. He had lost a lot of weight.

Seeing me at the piano, his eyes filled with a complicated mix of emotions.

Arthur looked between us, got the message, and quietly slipped into the back room.

Julian walked over and stood by the piano.

He reached out to touch my shoulder, but hesitated and pulled his hand back.

"Iris," his lips formed my name.

I looked up, completely calm.

[I’ve been looking for you everywhere,] he wrote on my notepad. His handwriting was messy and rushed.

"Okay," I nodded.

[Are you... doing well here?]

"Very well."

He fell silent, his eyes scanning my face. This time, he didn't look away, but I could see the painful struggle in his eyes.

[There is nothing going on between me and Chloe,] he wrote quickly, as if desperate to convince me. [She’s just a colleague.]

Looking at him, I felt a sudden urge to laugh.

"What does it matter now?"

Even if it wasn't Chloe, it would have been someone else eventually.

The problem was never Chloe.

The problem was the crushing weight of his guilt, and the pressure of a duty he never really wanted.

The problem was my face—a face even I was afraid to look at.

I took the pen and wrote:

[Julian, we broke up. Who you spend your time with is none of my business.]

He stared at the words, his eyes turning red.

[But I can't let you go!] He snatched the pen, writing so hard he nearly ripped the paper.

[I tried! I go to work, I perform surgeries, I try to block you out!]

[But every time I close my eyes, all I see is you pushing me out of that fire! I see you lying in that hospital bed!]

[Iris, I owe you my life! How do you expect me to just move on?!]

And there it was. We were right back where we started.

Debt.

Guilt.

He was trapped in a cage of his own making, and I was his only way to earn forgiveness. Now that I had walked away, he was completely lost.

I sighed, took the pen, and wrote slowly:

[You never owed me a life, Julian.]

[I saved you because, in that moment, I wanted you to live.]

[That’s all.]

[If my sacrifice only brings you pain, then I take it back.]

[You are free, Julian.]

[And so am I.]

My hand shook slightly as I finished writing, but my heart was incredibly light.

Julian stared at the page as if all the strength had been drained from his body. He stumbled back a step.

He looked at me with a deep, agonizing pain that I no longer cared to understand.

Without another word, he turned and walked out of the shop.

The glass door swung shut, the wind chimes moving in silence.