The following days unfolded like pages waiting to be written, and Mirabelle filled them the only way she knew how—with music.
Each morning, she rose early, spent hours at her piano, and filled notebooks with lyrics that read like fragments of thought. They were not polished verses meant for competition or publication. They were quiet, honest things—lines about rain, about regret, about sunlight through glass. Sometimes she hummed melodies to match them, shaping tunes as she went, her fingers tracing invisible patterns in the air.
When restlessness found her, she sought music beyond her own walls. That week, she attended every concert the city offered. She sat in velvet seats at grand theatres, surrounded by glittering patrons who whispered names and ticket prices like prayers. The performances were breathtaking—every note perfect, every gesture well rehearsed—but when the applause faded, Mirabelle felt the same quiet ache settle in her chest. It was all too distant, too untouchable, like art sealed behind glass.
On the third evening, she left a concert hall early and wandered through the streets alone. The rain had dried, and the city hummed with a soft, fading chaos. She followed the faint strumming of a guitar until she found its source—a man on a small street corner, his hat turned upside down for coins, his voice raw and low. A small crowd surrounded him: students, couples, and a mother with her child. They listened without pretense, their smiles gentle, their bodies swaying to the rhythm. When the song ended, they clapped—not out of obligation, but because they meant it.
Something about that moment caught her completely. The singer was not famous. His clothes were worn, his chords imperfect, yet every sound carried warmth. The distance between performer and listener had vanished; they breathed the same air.
That night, lying awake, Mirabelle realized what she wanted—to stand among people, not above them, and to give something of herself freely. The thought was terrifying and exhilarating all at once.
The next morning, she called one of the family's assistants and asked, with polite vagueness, where one might buy a decent guitar. She insisted on paying for it herself. When it arrived—a honey-colored acoustic with a clean, mellow tone—she spent time familiarizing herself with its weight and sound, letting her fingers learn the strings until they felt like an extension of her own touch.
She began searching for a place to play. The larger boulevards were too crowded and polished. The narrow lanes behind the marketplace were too quiet. She wanted somewhere between—somewhere alive but not overwhelming. Eventually, she found it: a narrow plaza near a row of cafés, where people walked at an unhurried pace and sunlight pooled across the cobblestones.
The first day she performed, her heart hammered so hard she thought she might faint. She wore simple clothes—a light blouse, jeans, her hair tied back—and sat on a small folding stool borrowed from the staff kitchen. The guitar strap hung awkwardly across her shoulder as she looked around. No one recognized her; no one even looked twice. She was anonymous—not by disguise, but by circumstance. She was simply a girl with an instrument and trembling hands.
She began softly, her voice almost lost to the wind. The song was one of her own, built from the melody she had sung in the garden, reshaped into words about finding light after ruin. As she sang, her fear loosened. Her voice grew steadier, warmer. The sound rose above the hum of traffic and the chatter of passersby.
People began to slow. A man with coffee paused to listen. Two children tugged at their mother's sleeve until she turned and smiled. A group of students stopped mid-conversation. The melody wrapped around them like sunlight filtering through leaves.
Mirabelle smiled back, her nerves dissolving into joy. She sang another song, then another. The afternoon passed in a blur of chords, laughter, and applause. Someone tossed a coin into the guitar case she had left open without thinking. Others clapped in rhythm or recorded short clips on their phones. By the time the sun began to dip, she was surrounded by friendly faces—strangers introducing themselves, asking if she performed elsewhere, telling her how much her music had moved them.
For the first time in her life, Mirabelle felt completely present. She was not the heiress of Terania Media. She was not the shadow of the man she used to love. She was simply a voice on the street, sharing something real.
When the crowd dispersed and she packed her guitar, her hands were trembling again, but this time from exhilaration rather than fear. One of the onlookers—a young woman in a denim jacket—approached to thank her and mentioned that she had recorded a video to share online. Mirabelle only laughed, her cheeks flushed.
"Thank you," she said sincerely. "It was my first time singing outside."
The girl grinned. "Then you should definitely do it again."
Mirabelle walked home as twilight settled, her guitar case bumping gently against her leg. Her throat was sore, her fingers ached, and her heart felt as though it had finally found a rhythm of its own.
She did not yet know that somewhere, before long, that video would begin to travel—and that the man she thought she had left behind would eventually see it.
But for now, she knew only the thrill of her first real song.