CHAPTER 1: THE FIRST NOTE
HIS POV.
She didn't see me.
Not really.
She walked past the piano, her eyes scanning the room like she was solving a puzzle no one else could see. I pressed a single key—soft, deliberate. The first note of the anthem. Her head tilted slightly, like she'd heard something familiar but couldn't place it.
Emma Reed.
I'd written her name a hundred times before I ever saw her. I knew her voice from recordings, her face from news clippings. But in person, she was... quieter. Stronger.
I watched her leave without looking back.
That night, I carved the same note into Eleanor's skin. Not out of rage. Out of rhythm.
The symphony had begun.
And Emma was already part of it.
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Eleanor Whitmore wiped her hands on her apron, bits of earth clinging to her palms. The greenhouse was warm and quiet, the kind of place where time seemed to slow. Sunlight filtered through the glass, lighting up the rows of orchids she'd spent years coaxing into bloom. Her knees ached from crouching, but she didn't mind. The ache reminded her she was still here, still moving, still tending to things that needed her.
She hummed as she pruned the orchids, an old song slipping out before she could stop it. It was strange—she hadn't thought of that tune in ages. She'd heard it first at the market, drifting from somewhere out of sight. Then again at the bakery, faint and tinny from a radio nobody remembered turning on. Each time, she'd brushed it off, told herself her mind was playing tricks. But the notes stuck with her, and now they found their way into her voice when she least expected.
She paused, the melody caught in her throat like a splinter. "No," she murmured, gripping the edge of the potting table. "That's over. That's done."
Moving to Lakeview was supposed to be a fresh start. She'd learned the neighbors' names, brought cookies to church picnics, smiled until it felt almost natural. Some days she believed she could let the past go, that forgiveness—God's, or maybe just her own—wasn't out of reach.
She stretched, wincing a little, and stepped out into the fading afternoon. Outside, the cottage sat at the edge of town, tucked behind pines and tangled undergrowth. She liked the quiet, the birds in the trees, the way the garden seemed to hold its breath at dusk. Harold would be home soon, expecting cinnamon cookies. She could almost taste them—the warmth, the sugar melting on her tongue.
She crossed the flagstones, slippers scuffing on the stone, and climbed the porch steps. The door creaked behind her, but she hardly noticed. She was thinking about flour and cinnamon, about the way Harold smiled when he saw a fresh batch cooling on the rack.
Then a single piano note rang out from inside the house.
She stopped. The sound was sharp, definite. Not the house settling, not the wind. She frowned, pulled her phone from her apron pocket. A message from Harold: Will be home soon, El. Don't start the cookies without me.
Her heart thudded in her chest. Another note. Then a few more. The melody came together, slow and deliberate. It was familiar—too familiar. Her breath caught. The tune from her memories, the one she never wanted to hear again.
She stepped inside, voice trembling. "Harold?"
No answer. The living room was empty except for the music, rolling out from the piano. And at the keys, a man dressed in all black, hands moving with a kind of grim grace.
"Who are you?" she managed.
The music stopped. The man turned. His face was covered with a mask, but she could see his eyes—there was something in his eyes, something hollow and burning.
"I'm the one you forgot," he said. His voice was almost gentle. "But I never forgot you."
Eleanor tried to scream, but the sound caught. The man moved quickly, too quickly. She stumbled, caught the side table, saw the world tilt as something heavy struck her head. Glass shattered. Pain flared. Then everything went dark.
---
She woke to candlelight, wrists bound with silk, ankles strapped to the armchair. The piano loomed in front of her, keys gleaming. The man stood nearby, watching her.
"You remember the song, don't you?"
Her voice was barely a whisper. "Why are you doing this?"
He smiled, cold and empty. "Because you sang it. Because you believed. Because you helped him."
"I didn't know," she choked out. "None of us knew."
He shook his head. "Didn't you? You watched. You sang. You let it happen."
A memory surfaced: the old chapel, banners, candles, the conductor's voice. Children kneeling at the altar. Eleanor, clutching a hymnal, singing with the others. She'd sung the anthem.
"I remember you," the man said. "You wore blue. You held the hymn book. You watched them die."
Tears spilled down her cheeks. "I was afraid."
"You were complicit."
"I've changed. Please. I'm sorry."
He stepped closer, knife flashing. "You still hum the anthem. You still pretend you're innocent."
"Please—"
He shook his head. "This isn't rage. It's rhythm."
The knife came down. Her scream was swallowed by the music. Darkness fell.
---
Harold's car crunched up the drive, sun painting the cottage gold. He carried flour for Eleanor—she'd wanted to bake. He climbed the steps, humming, wanting nothing more than to see her face. But as he opened the door, he heard the piano, the old song, the one he'd sworn never to hear again.
He dropped the flour. "Eleanor?"
No answer. In the living room, the piano keys stilled. Eleanor lay beside the piano, blood soaking her blouse, eyes wide and empty. An eighth note carved into her chest.
Harold fell to his knees and pulled her into his arms. "Eleanor, Love..... Oh God, Please don't leave me." His voice cracked as tears spilled down his cheeks, falling onto her blood-soaked blouse.
The silence pressed in around him. He dialed the police, voice shaking, and when they asked if he'd heard anything strange, he lied. If they knew about the song, about the past, they'd never believe he wasn't part of it.
He sat with her, holding her, the music long gone but impossible to forget.