Part 114
The melody flowed like breath — quiet, delicate, trembling on the edge of grief.
Every note he played carried something more than music. It was language, code, confession.
Aura had always loved when he played.
She stood by the window now, eyes half-closed, lost in the sound. She didn't see the way his fingers shaped patterns that weren't meant for beauty but for meaning.
To the untrained ear, it was simply a song.
To his fans, though — to those who knew his soul — the melody carried pieces of his old unreleased tracks, fragments that connected into a single message.
He played them in sequence, each chord progression spelling the initials of a phrase they all used to laugh about backstage:
"I'm still here."
The weight of that simple truth pressed against his chest.
He hadn't been "Adrian the Idol" in months, only a man locked away and hidden behind someone else's love twisted into chains.
But this—this song—was him taking himself back, one note at a time.
When he finished, Alex clapped softly, eyes bright with admiration.
"It's beautiful," she whispered. "It sounds like you again."
He smiled faintly. That's the point.
"Maybe you should record it," she said, stepping closer. "Just for us."
His pulse jumped.
That was it — his way out.
If he could convince her to let him record, he could send it to the world, to the label, to his fans.
They'd know what it meant. They'd find him.
"That's a good idea," he said carefully. "It could be… ours. A song no one else understands."
Her expression softened, warmth flooding her face as she touched his shoulder. "I knew you'd see it my way."
When she left to fetch the recorder, Adrian exhaled slowly.
His heart pounded with a mix of dread and fragile hope.
He had one chance to make every note scream for help — without letting her hear the fear beneath it.
He glanced toward the window, where the horizon was beginning to glow.
Morning light spilled across the keys like mercy.
He whispered, almost soundlessly:
"You'll find me soon."