8

Freya

Montrose's decor maintained the same standard every year—dark wood paneling, leather chairs, someone playing cello softly near the entrance. The afternoon light filtered through floor-to-ceiling windows onto white tablecloths, bringing a kind of proper, impeccable quietness.

Laura's message came around ten last night, with her usual urgency and adorable embarrassment, using four "sorrys" and two crying face emojis as a preface before getting to the point—her throat was inflamed, she had a fever of 104 degrees, and she simply couldn't make it through today's shift. She asked if I could cover for her at Montrose fine dining restaurant, lunch shift, two hours.

After reading the message, I thought for about three seconds and replied "I'll go."

Laura immediately sent a string of thanks plus a long hugging emoji. I flipped my phone face down next to my pillow, closed my eyes, and planned to sleep for two more hours.

I had been to places like Montrose before, but not in this capacity.

When I entered, the restaurant manager, learning I was substituting for Laura, tested my piano skills before giving me a brief nod. He led me to the piano area, explained the repertoire and the process for occasional customer song requests. I hung up my coat, sat on the piano bench, placed my fingers on the keyboard, and gently ran through the fingering before officially starting to feel the touch sensitivity of this piano.

It was a Steinway with excellent feel—the keys had even elasticity, rich sound, not one of those overused practice pianos with loose touch.

I thought for a moment and began with Chopin's nocturnes.

When playing piano, I always thought of Caroline, my mother.

I couldn't quite remember when this started, probably from when I first played through a complete piece independently. I was seven that year, sitting at our old piano at home, spine straight, toes barely reaching the pedals. Caroline sat beside me, lightly tapping the back of my hand with her fingers, saying: "Freya, relax your shoulders. Music doesn't need force to support it."

Caroline's voice was that warm kind that people could remember without effort.

She was one of the best pianists of that era, at least in my childhood eyes. Her concerts were always sold out. When she stood on stage, the audience was silent, and when she played the first note, I could feel the air in the entire hall draw inward.

I would sit in the audience then, looking up, thinking such things were simply incredible.

"Mama," I once ran to hug her legs—I was small then, probably only reaching her waist—"when I grow up, I want to be a pianist too, like you, with everyone coming to hear me play."

Caroline looked down, touched my hair, and asked with a smile: "So do you want to play for everyone to hear, or play for yourself to hear?"

I thought for a moment and answered very seriously: "Both."

Caroline laughed, picked me up, and said softly: "Then practice well."

Later, many things changed.

But that feeling never changed. When my fingertips touched the keys, something inside me would still loosen, like something sliding off my shoulders. My breathing became deeper than usual, and the noise in my head retreated far away.

I finished the first piece, paused for a few seconds, then continued into the next one.

The dining guests in the hall showed no obvious reaction, but that wasn't important. I didn't need them to react—just play the pieces well, finish covering today's shift, enjoy the simple pleasure of playing piano, then go back to see the thank-you cupcake Laura left me.

A server walked over, bowed, and placed a small folded paper on the small plate beside the piano bench.

I glanced down.

It was a business card with gold lettering, the name only two letter initials. On the back, a line of song titles was written in pen—the handwriting pressed firmly, neat, with wide spacing between characters. Clearly the handwriting of someone accustomed to being waited for, who didn't need to be rushed.

《Nocturne in C-sharp minor》, Chopin, posthumous work.

It was the piece I had just finished playing.

I flipped the business card over and looked at the front.

Then I raised my eyes and scanned the hall, wanting to see which customer had requested this piece.

My gaze fell toward a table by the window on the right side and met someone who happened to be looking this way.

Leopold Gray, with White beside him.

Leopold sat there with a water glass by his hand, back leaning against the chair, posture elegant and relaxed. Noticing me looking over, he slightly raised his chin and nodded gently. White sat beside him, waved at me with a brilliant smile, and blew me a kiss.

White was really such a flirtatious man. I really didn't know how someone with his personality could stay by Leopold's side.

White raised his pen and pointed at the piano, making a playing gesture. It seemed White had requested the song, while the noble Leopold was the enjoyer.

Leopold wore dark clothing today that made his entire person appear even more composed. To strangers, this would just seem like perfectly proper daily attire. The coat's thick, structured fabric covered most of his torso's outline, but the thin satin shirt underneath was completely opposite—soft against his skin, rising and falling gently with his breathing. The collar was buttoned properly, blocking all direct gazes, yet the slightly open gap at the cuffs, the exposed wrist bone when rolled up, still left vulnerabilities.

His lips looked somewhat moist from drinking water. I lingered on his lips for several seconds, my mind involuntarily beginning to wander.

Memories from that night inexplicably surfaced—Leopold's ascetic appearance, yet his passionate and intense movements when kissing me. Just deep kissing alone could make my legs weak.

Feeling my thoughts becoming increasingly scattered, I quickly collected myself.

I felt Leopold's gaze rest on me for about two seconds. His look wasn't as serious as last night, but combined with my recent fantasizing about him, the weight of it made me panic.

I put the business card back on the small plate and placed my fingers back on the keyboard.

When the first note fell, the air in the hall drew inward.

I wasn't looking at Leopold, focusing on the keys, focusing on the rhythm Caroline had once told me about—relax your shoulders, music doesn't need force to support it.

I truly enjoyed this pure feeling of playing piano, rather than being dressed up prettily to play only for that person I detested. That would only make me feel like a marionette.

When I reached the third section, someone entered the hall.

Footsteps stopped at the restaurant entrance, then walked inward, the sound disappearing on the carpet. I didn't look up, just caught a glimpse of a hem from the corner of my eye—peach colored, very thin fabric, the kind of skirt that would sway gently when walking.

Then the footsteps stopped. She stood in front of me, hand resting on the edge of the piano lid.

I didn't need to look up to know those eyes had landed on me.