16 | songs of the silent (part one)

I AWAKE TO THE SOUND of my mother's singing.

She doesn't sing anymore. Not the way she used to. She used to play at cafes and bars and open mics all around the city of Elmsbury, before some new and upcoming alternative band picked her up and they went on a tour all the way across the country, performing to full houses in towns and cities nearly every night. Those were the best days of her life―or that's what she tells Ebony and I, aside from the days we were born. She says she met the love of her life on that tour, in the first month, in a town forty minutes away, and she still goes to meet him frequently, even if we have yet to meet him. Even if he's not our father.

Still, with so many happy memories, neither of us have ever really understood why she ever gave it up.

The tour ended eight years ago, and I've never heard her sing since. Sometimes, in rare moments, you'll hear her play the piano after work or before dinner. Or, at least, you did. Over time, even those moments have petered out, as if my mother's love of music has completely faded away.

I'm not sure how I feel about hearing her sing again after so long. She's still note-perfect, as if time hasn't touched her, but if time doesn't wait, how can she sound young again?

She doesn't sound like my mother. She sounds like Genevieve Agreste, temporary singer with the Gold Diggers, captivating hearts and minds with each soulful performance. When she was out across the country, people loved her, and even back here in the city, she was an Elmsbury Sweetheart.

These days, I don't think anybody really knows her name, or cares. They're all too swept up by Monteneros and diamonds, and maybe that shattered her love for music more than time ever did.

But to hear her sing again...maybe she's the same woman who went on that tour. The same woman who couldn't care less about any Mr Rose, as long as her two kids weren't in trouble. The same woman who might listen to me if I tell her what's been going on instead of dismissing it, because she doesn't want to hear one wrong word about her friend.

That's the version of my mother I love to death, and so when she sings, I want to listen, padding down the stairs in pyjamas and a dressing gown to protect me from the unflinching chill, down to the piano where she sits.

She, too, is dressed only for the morning, with her hair in a messy bun and a ratty gown over her old nightdress. Her gaunt wrists poke out from the sleeves, slender fingers resting on the keys, but they don't make a sound of accompaniment, dormant and silent while her vocals sweep the air.

I rest my own hand on it, stroking the wood. The piano has been in this house since before I was born and has been in the family for the past century. It was my mother's love for playing that inspired our names―Ivory and Ebony.

The last note dies in the air, and she turns to face me, her smile wan in the pale morning light.

"Morning, darling." She hums, setting down the lid of the piano. "A bit early to be getting ready for school, isn't it?"

"I need to be in early," I lie like it's habit, tucking my fingers into the pockets of my dressing-gown. As an afterthought, I add, "But Ebony doesn't. I...have an essay I need to turn in."

"Oh, I see." She unwinds the tangled hairband from her hair, and soft brown locks tumble down her back, though her flesh is carved-straight and alabaster. Ebony and I's soft browns and filled frames are a gift from our father, even if no one knows or cares who he is. "Are you getting a lift?"

"Yeah," I lie again, resisting the urge to scratch at my arms. She hates when I do it, especially when I grow my nails out long just to feel the bite of pain. Scratching unwanted touches from my skin, because sometimes they bury themselves in deep. "So, I need to go get ready. But it was nice hearing you sing again."

"Thank you." Azure eyes settle on mine, but they're rich and wondering. Wondering why I chose art. Wondering why I don't love music like she claims to. I used to wonder the same thing. "Have fun at school."

Dread settles itself in my chest at the reminder. "I will," I chorus regardless, disappearing back up the stairs.

Ten to seven, and Ebony is still sleeping soundly in his bed. I want to leave before he's even halfway ready, if only to avoid Archer when he's picking my brother up. After Saturday night, I'm not sure how he feels about me.

And, without Archer Finley, I don't really have any allies left.

☆☆☆