A blizzard grounded his overseas flight, forcing him home hours earlier than planned. The house should have been subdued, staff moving quietly, Lydia resting as usual.
Instead, as Philip stepped inside and removed his coat, sound drifted from the upper floor.
Music. It was warm and rhythmic, unfamiliar yet inviting, filling the house with movement Philip had not felt since before the accident. Beneath it came a soft voice, encouraging, patient.
“Breathe with the sound. Let it carry you.”
Philip felt irritation flare. The housekeeper had explicit instructions. Her name was Maribel Cruz, a woman in her late fifties with weathered hands and steady eyes, hired quietly and rarely spoken to. She was not meant to experiment.
He climbed the stairs quickly, his annoyance sharpening with every note.
When he reached Lydia’s room, the door stood partially open, light spilling into the hallway.
He pushed it open and stopped.
The furniture had been moved aside, creating space where none existed before. A record spun gently on an old turntable Philip recognized instantly, one of Natalie’s records, untouched since her death.