Chapter 13: A Song for Alisa

The late afternoon sun spilled through the tall windows of the Everhart estate's music room, casting long, soft shadows across the polished hardwood floor. Dust motes floated lazily in the warm air, as though time itself had slowed to watch me.

I sat alone on the cushioned bench before the grand piano, fingers hovering uncertainly above the glossy black and white keys. The silence pressed down on me like a weight, heavier than any music I'd ever attempted to play. The room, though empty, felt full — full of all the things I had yet to say.

I inhaled slowly, willing myself to begin.

The Struggle to Find a Voice

Ever since Ms. Hoshino had started working with me, music had become less like a set of notes and more like a language I was trying desperately to learn. But even after weeks of lessons, the words I wanted to speak through song seemed trapped just beneath the surface — like a truth I could sense but not quite grasp.

I pressed a single key — middle C — and held it. The note vibrated in the quiet room, pure and clear. For a moment, I felt something fragile open inside me, a thread connecting me to something beyond my words.

But then the doubts crept in.

Is this enough?Will she understand?Can music really say what I mean?

I shut my eyes, recalling Alisa's steady presence, the way she had never forced me but always guided. Her faith in me felt like a warm light, but I was still fumbling in shadows.

The First Melody

With trembling fingers, I began to try again. Slowly, hesitantly, I pieced together a melody — simple, almost bare.

A soft rise, a gentle fall.

A question, then an answer.

Each note was a breath, a heartbeat, a whisper of the feelings I held for Alisa — gratitude, protection, something too deep to name.

I played it over and over, the tune weaving itself into my mind.

Sometimes the notes faltered, slipping awkwardly like a child learning to walk. Sometimes they soared, carrying emotions I wasn't ready to face.

But I kept playing.

A Quiet Room, A Loud Heart

The music room was silent except for the piano's soft resonance. My breathing grew shallow, heart pounding in a rhythm that matched the music.

I imagined Alisa just outside the door, listening.

Would she hear the thankfulness beneath the trembling notes? Would she sense the love I could not say aloud?

I pressed the keys harder, the notes sharper, more confident. And yet, I wanted to slow down, to soften, to speak softly as she always did.

The Fear of Sharing

That night, the melody played over and over in my mind. But I was afraid.

What if she thought it was foolish? What if my music was too raw, too clumsy?

Words were safer. Words could be controlled, hidden behind walls.

But music was different. It laid me bare.

I lay awake long after the moon had climbed high, the song a whisper in my ears.

Morning Courage

The next morning, I found Alisa in the garden, kneeling among the lilies she loved so much. The sunlight caught the pale blue of her blouse and the silver threads in her hair, making her seem almost ethereal.

"Alisa," I said, voice small but steady.

She looked up, eyes curious and warm.

"I… wrote a song," I confessed, cheeks burning.

A soft smile touched her lips.

"For me?"

"Yes."

She nodded, gentle and encouraging.

"Whenever you're ready, I'd love to hear it."

Playing the Song

That evening, the music room seemed different — smaller, softer, more intimate.

I sat at the piano again, the sheet music blank except for the hastily scribbled notes I'd written down. My fingers trembled as I positioned them on the keys.

The first note rang out, shaky but true.

I played the melody slowly, every phrase filled with the emotion I couldn't say with words.

It was a simple song — quiet, honest — a thread of thanks woven through notes and pauses.

When I finished, the room held its breath.

Alisa's Response

She was silent for a long moment, eyes reflecting the faint glow of the candlelight.

Then she reached out, fingers brushing lightly against mine.

"That was beautiful, Noah," she whispered. "Your music speaks more than words ever could."

Her voice was steady, calm, full of something I could only describe as pride.

The Language of Silence

In that quiet room, I understood that music was more than just sound. It was a bridge — a way to connect without fear, without hiding.

I didn't have to explain everything. Sometimes, the heart's true voice was spoken in notes and rhythms.

Alisa's eyes met mine, and in them I saw the same promise — a bond, a trust, a love that needed no words.

I had found a new way to say 'thank you.'

Reflection

Later that night, as she tucked me into bed and brushed my hair, I whispered, "Singing… it feels like breathing in a new world."

Her eyes softened.

"That's because it is," she said quietly.

Outside my door, monitors hummed softly — tracking every breath, every heartbeat — guarding the fragile boundary between my small world and the vast unknown.

In this quiet, controlled life, every moment was a choice.

And Alisa was determined to keep me safe — no matter the cost.