Carved in Her Bones

Rhian

Peter's apartment was nothing like I'd imagined. The moment I stepped inside, I was met by an imposing hallway lined with exquisite artwork, each piece so masterful that it seemed plucked from the hallowed walls of French museums. The collection was unexpected for someone his age, yet, somehow, it suited him—a beautiful mystery, both unsettling and captivating.

At the end of the hallway, the space opened up to an expansive sitting area, minimalist yet achingly tasteful, as though it had been curated for a life of beautiful isolation. Everything looked untouched, every surface pristine, as if no one truly lived here. A soft, lingering scent of lavender and wood drifted in the air, creating an illusion of warmth in a space that was otherwise eerily still.

But what took me by surprise was the piano—a Bechstein D 282. Its polished, ebony body stood against the wall facing tall French doors, which opened out onto a view of the old city, veiled in the dusk. It was nearly a replica of the one I'd learned to play on as a child, a detail that made my chest tighten.

I knew Peter had money, but I hadn't expected the kind of wealth that could command an apartment of this scale—art that could buy out an entire village in rural Ireland.

I perched on a stool by the kitchen, watching him move with uncanny ease, barefoot, completely at home. He worked with an effortless confidence, like he'd prepared a hundred meals here, the way his hands moved with assured familiarity. As I watched, a memory surfaced—the way he'd kissed me after I played. The way the music had poured out of me for the first time in years. I hadn't touched a piano since my brother died; the heaviness that had clouded my heart every time I tried to play had vanished, as if Peter's presence alone had somehow lifted the weight.

"Are you allergic to anything?" His voice brought me back, low and intimate.

"No," I replied, meeting his gaze with a smile that I hoped concealed the ache of all that went unsaid. "Nothing... except maybe morphine," I thought, but held back. Instead, I asked, "So, what are you making?"

He smirked. "My version of a croque madame."

"Peter, are you obsessed with everything French?" I teased. "Your apartment looks like a modernized French villa, your art is all Impressionist... and now this?"

He paused, setting down the knife he'd been using to slice beets, and turned to me, giving me that piercing, undivided attention that made everything else fade. "The art was all my mother. She decorated this place herself. The building came like this—I swear I had no say in its 'Frenchness.'" He cracked a wry smile. "But the cooking? A family friend taught me."

"Family friend?" I echoed, curious. But I sensed there was something he wasn't saying, something beneath the surface he didn't want me to see.

"Yes." A slight shadow passed over his face, so brief I almost missed it. I could tell by the way he brushed off my curiosity that he wouldn't elaborate. Not tonight.

As he turned back to his work, I felt a strange comfort settle over me—a rare lightness. It was almost as if, in Peter's silent presence, something inside me was beginning to heal, almost as if the pain was gone. He made it better.

To make this scene richer in atmosphere and tension, I'll enhance sensory details, deepen the characters' dynamic, and create a subtly charged, slow-burn feeling. Here's an edited version:

The croque madame arrived with a side of crisp green salad and roasted beets, glistening under a light lemon vinaigrette. I picked up my fork as Peter excused himself to "take care of something." Tentatively, I speared a beet and a slice of cucumber, and as I tasted them, my eyes widened. I'd never had a salad like this before—each bite was vibrant, fresh, almost indulgent.