The orchestra faded into a ghostly whisper of strings. Laufey let her bow rest. For a long, heavy moment, there was no applause—only the shared silence of everyone in the room who had ever loved someone they shouldn't have.
She began to sing, her voice a rich, honeyed contralto that bridged the gap between the golden age of jazz and the sting of modern text messages. Every note was a confession. The orchestra rose to meet her, the cellos providing a deep, resonant ache that mirrored the hollow feeling in her chest.
As the conductor raised his baton, a soft shiver of violins began—a sound like a distant memory waking up. Laufey closed her eyes. She wasn’t in London anymore. She was back in that dim kitchen, watching the rain blur the streetlights, waiting for a phone call she knew wouldn’t come. “One, two, three...” her mind counted.