Raphael's footsteps echoed lightly as he left his study, the faint click of polished leather against the marble floor the only sound accompanying him. Dinner awaited, though he knew it would be anything but relaxing. Bianca was already seated at the long dining table, perfectly poised, every gesture controlled, every expression measured. Even after a year of marriage, he felt no warmth in the shared dinners—they were polite arrangements, formalities.
"Good evening," she said, her voice soft, but with an undertone of expectation.
"Evening," he replied shortly, taking his seat across from her. The tension was immediate, a palpable weight pressing against the air.
A maid poured the wine and slipped quietly away. Raphael's eyes flicked over the table, noting the precise arrangement of cutlery and napkins, the faint scent of the roast wafting from the platter, the way Bianca's hand lingered slightly too long over her glass. She was trying, he could see that—but the effort only made the silence heavier.
"So… you didn't spend too long in your study tonight," Bianca ventured, voice careful, trying to pierce the quiet.
"Work's done," he said flatly, his tone neutral but sharp.
She hesitated, then, as if searching for something, added, "I noticed Marco and Lorenzo were speaking… about someone. Who was he referring to?" She brushed a strand of hair behind her ear nervously, her fingers trembling faintly.
Raphael's fork paused midair. His dark eyes lifted to hers, a cold, unreadable glance that made her swallow hard. He didn't answer. Not immediately. Not at all. Instead, he lowered his gaze, setting his fork down with quiet deliberation, continuing his meal as if the question had never been asked.
Bianca's shoulders tensed. She glanced at him again, trying to catch a hint, any sign of acknowledgment, but his expression remained unchanged—controlled, distant, unmoved. The words hung in the air, heavy and unspoken.
After what felt like an eternity, she spoke again, quieter this time. "I… I hope dinner is to your liking."
"Pass the bread," he said, breaking the tension in the simplest, most detached way possible.
The rest of the meal passed similarly, with Bianca stealing glances at him, trying to gauge a flicker of warmth, and Raphael remaining impenetrable. When the plates were cleared, Bianca muttered an excuse about a headache and left the room, each step clicking sharply on the marble floor, leaving him alone in the vast, silent dining room.
---
Raphael loosened his tie, unbuttoned the top of his shirt, and let out a long, slow breath. He made his way to his bedroom—one of the many rules of their marriage was clear: they slept separately, maintaining distance even in the same house. He showered, changed into simple pajamas, and lay on the bed, hand resting over his eyes. The cool sheets offered no comfort, and his mind refused to quiet itself.
Hours passed. He turned, flipped the pillow, adjusted the blankets—nothing helped. Sleep eluded him entirely. Finally, he sat up, eyes scanning his room. The dresser caught his gaze, and there it was: the key. Nestled in the carved wooden tray, hidden from casual notice, yet so familiar that he could retrieve it without a thought. He picked it up, the metal cold in his palm, and rose quietly, moving toward the east wing.
The piano room's door creaked faintly as he inserted the key and turned it. The scent of wood polish, aged over time and dust, filled the space. The moonlight caught motes of dust floating lazily in the air, giving the room a quiet, ethereal glow. The piano stood proudly in its place, a thin layer of dust on its lid. The sofa near it still held the small blanket Elara had once claimed as hers. A few scattered music sheets hinted at forgotten melodies.
He pressed a key, the note echoing softly into the stillness.
---
Flashback
She had been eleven, sitting at the piano, long hair loosely tied, legs swinging as she focused on the keys. Raphael, seventeen, leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, observing.
"Raph, listen!" she called over her shoulder, fingers dancing clumsily over the keys.
"I'm listening," he said, voice steady but eyes amused.
"You don't look like it!" she pouted, cheeks puffed.
"Maybe because you're too loud to ignore," he teased, stepping closer.
Her eyes widened. "That's rude!"
"Then play properly," he said, faint smirk tugging at his lips.
She turned back to the piano, determined, pressing each key carefully. The melody came out uneven but sweet, the sound of pure joy and innocence.
When she finished, she twisted around to face him, hair tumbling over her shoulder. "Well?"
He gave a slow nod. "Better."
Her face lit up. "See? I told you I could do it!"
He flicked her forehead gently. "You still missed the sharp in the third line."
"Ow! You're mean!" she laughed, rubbing her forehead—but the glow of pride remained.
"You've made this room yours already," he murmured softly, almost to himself, watching her. The way her small hands hovered over the keys, the way her eyes sparkled with determination—it was all imprinted in his memory.
---
Present
Raphael sat on the sofa, the key still warm in his hand, the piano's faint scent surrounding him. "Stellina…" he whispered—the nickname he hadn't spoken in three years. The memory lingered, bittersweet and tender, filling the room with a quiet ache.
He stayed until the first gray light of dawn brushed the horizon. Then, with a final lingering touch on the piano, he locked the room again, leaving the dust and memories undisturbed. Silent footsteps carried him back down the hallway, the echo of a single note still hanging in the cool morning air.