Chapter 3

June Abbott POV

I arranged to meet Ethan at the music shop three days after reading that investigation report.

I didn't ask about Chloe, nor about the "normal couple interaction model." Asking wouldn't change anything. I just wanted to try one more time, to put my left hand in front of him, to see if he would actually come over.

The music shop wasn't busy that afternoon. A few colleagues were organizing sheet music in the back. When Ethan walked in, I was already sitting at the piano by the window.

He checked the time. "Something wrong?"

I placed my left hand on the keys.

That hand was naturally imperfect; it couldn't play full chords. I'd practiced for many years, knowing how to avoid the empty spaces, how to make a one-handed piece sound less awkward.

When the first note fell, the shop quieted a bit.

Ethan stood behind me, his gaze on the keys. My left hand slowly moved between the black and white keys, the missing part of my finger always exposed. Each press required a little more force than for an average person.

The piece was short.

After the last note faded, my left hand remained on the keys. I looked up at Ethan.

"Could you teach me to play a four-hand duet?"

Ethan didn't speak immediately.

I finished my request. "I'll play the left-hand part, you play the right. Just once."

This was the first time I'd asked him for anything since our marriage.

Not a cup, not a car, not the title of Mrs. Vance. I wanted him to sit beside me and play one piece on the same piano.

Ethan's phone vibrated.

He looked down at the screen, his brows quickly furrowing.

I watched his expression change. I already knew who that expression belonged to.

"Chloe's rehab training didn't go well today." Ethan silenced his phone. "She's having a bit of a breakdown. I need to go to her."

My left hand, still on the keys, froze.

"This piece is very short," I said.

Ethan picked up his jacket from the back of the chair, walked over to me, and patted my shoulder.

"Next time."

The words were light, and familiar.

He turned and walked out. The music shop's glass door opened, and the chime above it rang once. His figure quickly disappeared down the street.

My colleagues in the shop had all stopped what they were doing.

Someone still held a stack of sheet music, another a polishing cloth. Their gazes fell on me, then quickly shifted away.

I sat at the piano, my left hand still on the keys.

The keys were cold. The chill crept up from my fingertips, along the back of my hand, to my wrist. The most constant thing Ethan left me was the coldness each time he let go.

A colleague softly called my name. "June?"

I looked down at the keys.

The four-hand duet music was still spread on the stand, the right-hand part densely noted. That part should have been played by Ethan, sitting beside me. Now the right side of the bench was empty, the corner of the sheet music fluttering in the breeze from the window.

I reached out my right hand and pressed down on the score.

The sounds of talking resumed in the shop. A customer trying out a piano could be heard from the other end. No one looked at me anymore, but that scene had been witnessed by everyone.

I sat for a long time.

When I finally lifted my left hand from the keys, faint white marks were pressed into my fingertips. I placed my right hand on the edge of the piano lid and slowly closed it.

The lid lowered with a soft thud.

The shop fell silent for another moment.

I closed the four-hand duet music book and put it back on the lowest shelf.