Because he knew that melody.
Not vaguely.
Not distantly.
He knew it perfectly.
It was a song that had lived in this room years ago, played by a young pianist whose presence had once filled the ballroom just as completely as the chandeliers’ light.
A woman who had disappeared one winter—after whispers, after scandal, after a story no one in this room ever spoke about directly anymore.
The man stepped closer to the piano now, his movements slower, no longer confident.
“Who taught you that?” he asked.
The girl’s fingers hovered above the keys, the last note still echoing faintly in the air.
Then she looked up at him.
“My mother.”
The words landed heavier than the music.
Color drained from his face.
The room seemed to shrink, the walls closing in slightly as the weight of something long buried began to rise.
“She said she played it here…” the girl added, her voice quieter now, but somehow sharper.
A soft gasp moved through the crowd.
The man took an involuntary step forward.
“What was her name?” he asked, though part of him already knew.
The girl opened her mouth to answer—
and as she did, something slipped into the light.