Her voice wavered, but she didn’t stop.

“The hospital became our second home. I’d sit by her bed and sing to her. Little songs I made up. She said my voice made the pain quieter. That it helped her sleep.”

Amelia’s eyes glistened, but she didn’t blink them away.

“The night she died, it was raining. I remember because the window was cracked open, and the sound of it hitting the sill was the only thing keeping me from falling apart.”

She swallowed.

“I held her hand. She was so still. Her breathing was shallow like the world was trying to forget she was there. I sang to her—just a lullaby, one she used to hum when I was little. And somewhere in the middle of it... she let go.”

Silence again. But this one was different. Not empty. Full.

“I didn’t cry right away,” she said. “I just kept singing. Like if I stopped, she’d disappear completely.”

Ethan’s voice was barely a whisper. “What happened after?”

Amelia looked up, eyes steady now. “Foster care. A lot of houses. Many people didn’t know what to do with a child who only spoke in melodies. But I kept singing. Because it was the only thing that still felt like her.”

She reached into her bag and pulled out a small, worn cassette tape. “This is her. Singing to me when I was a baby. I’ve carried it everywhere.”

Ethan stared at it like it was something sacred.

“I think,” she said, “that’s why I understood you. Because we both learned how to survive through sound.”

He didn’t speak. Just reached out and gently closed his hand over hers, the cassette between them.

And for the first time in a long time, neither of them felt alone.

Amelia let the silence linger, not out of hesitation, but reverence. Then, slowly, she pulled her hand back and looked toward the piano.

“You know,” she said, her voice lighter now, but still threaded with something raw, “I’ve been thinking about something for a while.”

Ethan raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

She nodded, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “A duet.”

He blinked. “A duet?”

“Not just any duet,” she said, standing and pacing a few steps, the idea gaining shape as she spoke. “Something stripped down. Honest. Two voices, one piano. No overproduction. Just... truth.”

Ethan leaned back slightly, arms crossed. “You want me to sing?”

She turned to him, eyes bright. “You already do. You just don’t always use your voice.”

He gave a short laugh, more breath than sound. “I don’t know. I’m not exactly a harmony guy.”

“You don’t have to be,” she said. “You just have to be real. That’s what people connect to. That’s what I connected to.”

Ethan looked at her for a long moment. Then, with a sigh that carried more weight than he meant to show, he nodded. “Alright. Let’s do it.”

The smile he gave her was small, a little crooked, and not entirely free of pain—but it was real. And for now, that was enough.

Amelia grinned, already moving toward the console. “Okay, we’ll keep it simple. One mic. One take. Let’s just see what happens.”

They moved together in a quiet rhythm, adjusting mic stands, checking levels, and clearing space around the piano. There was a kind of intimacy in the setup—unspoken but felt. The way their hands brushed as they passed cables. The way Ethan glanced at her when he thought she wasn’t looking. The way Amelia hummed softly under her breath, grounding herself.

When everything was ready, they stood side by side at the piano.

Amelia sat first, fingers hovering above the keys. “I’ve got a melody,” she said. “It’s something I used to sing to myself when I couldn’t sleep. I think it could be the chorus.”

Ethan nodded, then sat beside her. “You start. I’ll follow.”

She began to play soft, lilting chords that felt like moonlight on water. Then her voice joined, low and warm:

“We are echoes in the silence, Notes that never fade, carried by the ones we’ve lost, in every song we’ve made…”

Ethan closed his eyes. When he opened them, he sang the next line—his voice rougher, but steady:

“I hear you in the quiet, feel you in the sound, and when I play, I find you— You’re always around.”

Their voices met in the next line, imperfect but beautiful, like two broken things learning how to fit together.

When the last chord faded, neither of them moved.

Then Ethan turned to her, his voice barely above a whisper. “That... felt like her.”

Amelia smiled, eyes glistening. “Mine too.”

And in that moment, surrounded by cables and silence and the ghosts of songs not yet written, something shifted between them—not just collaborators, not just survivors.

Something more.

The next morning

The morning light spilled through Ethan’s window in soft, golden streaks, catching on the dust motes that drifted lazily in the air. He lay in bed, one arm draped over his eyes, the other resting on his chest where the last notes of the duet still echoed faintly.

For once, he hadn’t dreamed of ticking clocks or slurred voices. No phantom metronomes. No piano keys turning to teeth. Just music. Just her voice.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand.

He reached for it, blinking against the light.

Amelia [8:12 AM]: Still thinking about last night. That duet… it felt like something real.

A pause. Then another buzz.

Amelia [8:13 AM]: We should do it again sometime. No pressure. Just… us.

Ethan stared at the screen, a slow smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Not the forced kind he wore in interviews or the hollow one he gave to strangers. This one was different. Warmer. Quieter.

He typed back.

Ethan [8:15 AM]: Yeah. I’d like that.

He set the phone down and sat up, running a hand through his hair. The studio still waited. The deadlines. The expectations. The ghost of his father, always just behind him, whispering about perfection and profit.

But for the first time, Ethan didn’t feel like chasing that ghost.

He thought about Amelia’s laugh. The way her voice cracked slightly on the high notes, not from weakness, but from feeling. The way she looked at him...not like a product, not like a project...but like a person.

He stood, stretched, and walked to the upright piano in the corner of his apartment. It wasn’t much—just a thrift store rescue with a few sticky keys—but it was his.

He sat down, placed his fingers on the keys, and played the first few notes of their duet.

Not for his father.

Not for the label.

Just for himself.

And maybe, for her.