Lydia stared at the sheet of music again, her hands trembling. The notes were written with care, almost tenderly, but something about them felt strange to her. There was nothing obviously wrong. The lines were straight, the strokes neat, the ink still fresh. Yet deep inside her chest, unease spread like fire.
Her heart began to race. She clutched the music sheet tightly against her chest as if it might slip away from her. She needed air. She needed answers. Without another thought, she turned and left the lounge, her steps uneven, her skirts brushing against the polished floor as if they were pulling her down.
Her mind screamed at her, pushing and pulling in every direction.
"It cannot be. It cannot be what I am thinking," she whispered to herself, almost like a prayer. "It is not. Maybe I am crazy. Maybe I am losing my mind. Maybe I am imagining things."
