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THE FIRST TIME you notice something is, well, wrong is when you are like five years old - staring at the little instrument the man that was supposed to be this body's father was playing. A guitar.
With your slightly improved sight, you could see the outline of the red haired man mindlessly strumming the bright crimson and white semi acoustic guitar in his hold. His performance was sloppy at best, from your professional view, but you supposed that he wasn't trying that much anyway.
In fact, he seemed deep in thought - like he wasn't aware of where he was, or with whom.
You concluded that fact when he made an impressive enough riff that you just had to clap your hands and he jolted with a - rather girlish - shriek. He seemed sheepish after that, numbly mumbling something about you liking music too.
Then, as if alarm bells rang in his head, he snapped his eyes at you. "You... like this?" He made a strumming sound again, this time with more practiced ease as you noted, with his guitar.
You laughed. That question was too ironic for you to not to.
You like music?
Of course not.
( "It's a shame that you -" )
You live music. You breathe it. It's something too engraved in your soul that its impossible for you to not to.
Music is - was? - your life, and even in death, you suppose its something painfully familiar.
Mr Evans seems to take your laugh as a positive answer though, rather than an ironic one, so you see him beaming so bright it hurts your little eyes.
"Really? Aha, I knew it - this is awesome! Come here," he gets up, and picks you from where you sat to bring you closer to the spot where he played, "I always told Andy that one of you would like music, you know, not - not that Petunia doesn't, but she never seemed interested with it you know? Maybe when she was your age, but she seems to be so disinterested now that I can't even -"
For a man so quiet around others, he sure talks a lot when it's the two of you, you briefly case this information away while gawking at the sheer size of this guitar. It's just - much bigger than you're used to, that you could barely even see past it.
"Though, I suppose you don't really care about that, do you?" The man asks amusedly, interrupting your thought process. You look up at him with a blink. He responds with one of his own.
Huh. He's strangely perceptive, despite his usual look of ditziness.
So, he plays for you. He doesn't let you play, obviously, but he plays for you nonetheless and it has a comforting feeling to it - its warm, the melody hugs you and you can almost swear that you can practically see music vibrating around the two of you, which is weird because that's never happened before and —
It stops.
Mr Evans stops playing.
"No, no, no Andy's going to kill me," Mr Evans mumbles in a frenzy, gently setting her and the guitar next to each other. A very bad choice, you pout, leaving a toddler and an instrument alone is never any good. You know from experience.
"Sorry, Lils, daddy has - has to do the chores he's been delaying - all day? Oh no." Then, he scrambles out the door to kitchen.
You have a feeling that Mrs Evans and Petunia are going to return from their shopping trip soon at this reaction.
You pause, staring still at the red and white instrument cushioned next to you. It's... a strange feeling, having the familiarity of something related to you, but it's also very foreign. Like it's supposed to be not here - but you feel a sense of belonging, not here, to you.
Funny, the guitar has never even been your main thing.
( "Did you say you play the piano?" )
You reach out with feather light touches to caress the semi acoustic, and the longing you feel makes you physically ache. You - you want to play it.
The realisation hits at once and you fight back tears. Fuck. You are really hopeless now, aren't you? Crying because of - what? Nostalgia? Shit man, you - all you really want to do is play it. But you can't. This body's fingers - they're small and delicate, not yet cut out to be a guitarist's hands. ( Notyoursnotyoursnotyours— )
A note plays.
You jerk up violently as another one plays. It's coming from the guitar and it's so -
Huh?
You're alone.
How did it make sound? That's -
Suddenly, the guitar starts playing a rhythm - of a lifetime ago, you realise in horror - by itself. No, no, no - you crawl back on the couch, because this isn't normal. What's happening with that guitar?! Fuck, fuck, fuck, was this a ghost's doing...?!
How would a ghost even know how to play that tune?! You didn't - you didn't tell anyone. Not in the past, not know, not ever.
"Lily?"
The music stops as soon Mr Evans enters the room.
And looking at this man's face, the one that's painfully not your father's, you can't help, but start crying again - an action you've not done ever since you came to terms with your situation.
Minutes later, you've still not stopped crying.
About an hour later, when Mrs Evans and Petunia finally come home, they find you clutching Mr Evans for dear life.
Days later, you finally realise what's wrong after you accidentally nurse back a flower back to life.
Magic was real in this world.
·˚ ༘₊·꒰➳: ̗̀➛ ⦃ 𝄢 ⦄₊·꒰ ↺ ↺ ༘·˚
🌻🌾( ˘͈ᵕ˘͈⍣ ೋ ) — — — — — —
AUTHOR'S NOTE : 𝄢𝄞 so,, yeah no canon content for a while yk the canon divergence starts here actually bc lilys full name is lily jean evans for no reason other than i found the name jean pretty and lilys canon full name is lily j. evans so i had to improvise a bit here
if ur curious abt the parents names their names are allium anthony evans and miranda evans neé williams. im sure u can guess who came from a magical family line LMAO
