Mother's voice echoes through the grand foyer as she steps inside, her elegant presence commanding attention. "Edward? We've returned." As Barnaby, our seasoned and dutiful butler, sheathes Mother of her coat, she grumbles "He's always in the blasted study. Life goes on outside that room, without him." Her annoyance festers with every word. "He longs for solitude more than he longs for time with his own family.
My Father often slips into these periods of seclusion. It's almost as if by hiding away, he feels like he can reach those whom he's lost. The list is growing, and soon I fear he may be chained to that office for good.
After swiftly relieving us all of our woolen coats, Barnaby gives a courteous nod that catches the light in the center of a crown of thin, silvery hair. "Welcome back, Mrs. Blackwell, Miss Catherine Blackwell, and Miss Victoria Blackwell. I'm delighted to see your safe return." His smile stretches across weathered features.
"Thank you, Barnaby," Mother acknowledges distractedly. "Please, prepare the music room. With the social season nearly upon us, my daughters are in dire need of practice."
"Right away, madam," Barnaby replies, ever the epitome of efficiency.
As Barnaby busies himself with the arrangements, anticipation tingles in the air. Once, the music room resonated with laughter and jovial melodies as Victoria, Thomas, and I whiled away countless hours under Grandmother Jane's approving gaze. But now, with Thomas away at King's College and Grandmother no longer among us, the room stands silent, waiting to be reanimated by our music.
After months of disuse, entering the room feels like stepping into a forgotten memory, the past shrouded in misty nostalgia. The seafoam green walls only amplify this, evoking memories of Grandmother's gentle smile. The golden harp nestled in the corner gleams in the sunlight streaming through the windows, acting as a sturdy glint of hope. The grand piano, its keys miraculously pristine, occupies the center of the room, surrounded by music stands adorned with relics of our musical past: crinkled and yellowed sheet music. And there, atop the marble mantle, lies my burgundy violin case, its surface dusted with neglect, a silent witness to the passage of time.
Despite the room's serene beauty, my gaze is drawn inexorably to the violin. Its silent strings whisper of unfinished melodies and memories untold. It's a poignant reminder of Grandmother's absence.
"Shall we begin?" Mother's voice breaks the spell, her fingers poised over the piano keys.
I don't recall her moving.
Ever the pragmatist, Victoria flips through the music on the stand with a wry expression. "Do we have to play Crazy Jane again?"
The mention of the piece, once a favorite of Grandmother's and later of my brother Thomas', tightens the knot in my throat, threatening to unleash a flood of emotions. Swallowing hard, I remain silent, unwilling to betray the turmoil within.
As Victoria starts to warm up her voice, I tune my violin, and the room slowly comes alive with the strains of music once more. In the hallowed halls of Blackwell Manor, music echoes once again.
YOU ARE READING
Haunted
Mistério / Suspense"It was peaceful for a short while, as the sky turned liquid and my lips turned blue. Even the burning in my lungs was better than the ache in my heart." Bound by a lie, held by a promise. During the Reconstruction Era in New York (1877), Catherine...
