The city outside was still alive when Adrian's car pulled up to his building.
Neon bled across the streets, painting the wet pavement in colors too bright to be real.
Laughter spilled from nearby bars, the kind of careless joy that felt like mockery.
The elevator carried him upward in silence.
When the doors slid open, the hallway greeted him with its familiar hush.
His apartment was all glass and chrome, high above the noise — a palace of quiet designed for a man who couldn't bear to be alone but couldn't stand people either.
He tossed the keys onto the marble counter and walked toward the grand piano by the window.
The city's skyline stretched beyond it, a blur of light and motion.
He sat down and touched the keys.
His fingers rested there, motionless.
When he finally played, the notes were soft and aimless — not a song, just sound.
The melody drifted toward something half-remembered: a tune Elise used to hum when she thought no one was listening.
He stopped mid-note, the sound breaking off sharply.
Her voice came back in fragments — laughter in the kitchen, the scrape of a chair, the whisper of her saying, "You'll never lose yourself in the music, Adrian. Promise me that."
He had promised.
And then broken it.
The phone buzzed on the table beside him.
He didn't look.
He already knew the message it would hold — another invitation, another event, another spotlight.
He pressed one key — a low, mournful note that lingered too long.
Outside, the lights of the city blinked like indifferent stars.