It was sunrise. The sun rose beautifully in the spring light, painting the sky with soft gold and pink. The air outside was fresh, birds sang gently, and the world seemed full of promise. But inside Lydia's room there was no beauty, only pain.
Her eyes were swollen and red from endless crying. Her cheeks were streaked with tears that had dried but still left marks on her pale skin. Her lips trembled from exhaustion. She had not slept at all. All night she had sat by the window, staring at the sunlight creeping through the curtains, waiting for morning but feeling nothing but heaviness in her chest.
On the small table beside her lay the letter and the music sheet. She had stared at them until her eyes burned. She had held them until her fingers felt numb. She had looked at them from every angle, every fold, every detail, as if the truth might reveal itself if she only stared hard enough. But the papers never changed. They remained the same, cruel and confusing.
