part 21 : a stranger with a cello

Fiona arrived in a small, nameless town nestled where the mountains kissed the sea. It wasn't the kind of place that appeared on postcards or influencer blogs. It was quieter than that—older, softer, like a lullaby humming beneath the bones of the earth. The streets were cobbled with stone smoothed by generations of footsteps. Flower boxes burst with wild blooms. The air smelled of roasted coffee, warm bread, and salt carried on the breeze. Life here didn't move fast. It flowed—like waves on a patient shore.

She didn't tell anyone where she went.

No announcements. No explanations.

Just… left.

She rented a little stone cottage at the very edge of town—perched right between a sleepy forest and a winding path to the sea. It had chipped blue shutters and ivy creeping lovingly up the walls. Inside, the floors creaked and the windows sang when the wind blew just right. And for the first time in what felt like centuries, Fiona didn't feel the urge to fix anything. Not the wobbly chair. Not the slow drain. Not even herself.

She woke up each morning with the sun bleeding in soft gold across her bed, birdsong filtering in through the open window. She drank tea with honey and walked barefoot through dew-damp grass. In the evenings, she'd wrap herself in a blanket, sit on the tiny front porch, and watch the sky melt into colors she didn't know had names—tangerine, lavender, dusky rose. It was as if the universe had finally taken her hand and whispered, Now breathe. I've got you.

And she did.

She breathed.

For the first time in years, she breathed for no one but herself.

One afternoon, after days of wandering and letting her soul stretch, she walked into the heart of town. The square was bustling gently—children laughing, a baker sweeping crumbs from the steps, old couples sharing stories and cigarettes on wooden benches. The town felt like a memory, but one she hadn't lived yet. A kind memory waiting for her to arrive.

And then—she heard it.

The sound.

A cello.

Low and slow, drawn from the marrow of someone's soul. Each note like a heartbeat grieving something it couldn't name. It wasn't just music—it was sorrow speaking a language beyond words. Fiona felt it before she even knew she was moving. Her feet pulled her forward, heart syncing with every aching note.

She turned a corner, and there he was.

A man in a black turtleneck sat at the edge of the fountain, his back curved around the cello like he was protecting it from the world. His dark hair curled slightly at the ends, a little wild, a little windswept. A faint scar kissed the sharp line of his jaw, barely visible unless the light hit it just right. His fingers moved with a precision born not of perfection, but pain. He wasn't performing. He was bleeding.

A tattoo peeked from under his sleeve—something winged. Maybe a bird. Maybe a phoenix. Maybe he'd been reborn too.

Fiona didn't speak at first. She simply stood there, the music stitching threads into the quiet, binding something in her that had long been unraveling. And then, as if sensing her, he looked up.

Their eyes met.

Not like lightning.

Not like a fairytale.

But like a soft inhale after holding your breath for too long.

Something passed between them—not fire, not fury. Just recognition.

Like two souls whispering, I see you.

Fiona found her voice, soft and unsure. "Didn't mean to stop you."

He paused, bow still in hand, and offered a slow, knowing smile. "You didn't. You fit right into the melody."

She let out the smallest laugh, surprised by how natural it felt.

"Do you always play like the world's about to end?" she asked, sitting on the edge of the fountain beside him.

"Only when it's just beginning," he replied.

Silence hung between them—but it wasn't heavy. It was sacred.

She didn't know his name.

He didn't ask for hers.

But in that moment, it didn't matter.

For the first time since Dominic's cold distance, and Damein's fiery pull, and Adam's comforting familiarity, Fiona didn't feel the need to choose or be chosen.

She just was.

Alive.

Present.

Free.

The cello rested between them like a heartbeat, and for a while, they just listened—to the waves crashing in the distance, to the town moving around them, and to something softer, something braver.

The beginning of something that didn't need to be named.

Not yet.