watching him. ⸺ Zade is at the piano. It’s something she’s only seen him do a handful of times—
his fingers moving across the keys in that effortless way of his, like he isn’t really thinking about it, like the music just flows from him, raw and instinctive.


The air in Forest Hill hums with the slow rhythm of twilight, where the sky drapes itself in
of the woods, the flicker of candlelight—, the quiet rhythm of rain tapping against the wide glass
watching him. ⸺ Zade is at the piano. It’s something she’s only seen him do a handful of times—
⸺The melody is slow, low, the kind that settles deep in her chest, pressing against something
Zade doesn’t look at her⸺doesn’t stop.



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