Cadenza

By Hailey Huntington

My fingers hover over the ivory keys, and I smell smoke. I don’t have to strike a note to hear a sound. But it’s not a clear, crisp middle C ringing in my ears—it’s screaming.

The memories flooding my mind haunt me more than any discordant melody ever could.

I stand in front of the pianoforte, frozen on the recital hall stage. I don’t touch the instrument. What possessed me to come down here?

The hall has been rebuilt and restored. There’s no sign, no lingering scar of the fire. Yet, in my mind’s eye, I still see the flames.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize anyone else would be here.”

My skirts swirl as I spin around.

A young man—presumably a fellow student—stands several feet away, twisting his cap in his hands. “I’m sorry. I can leave if you’re practicing—”

“I’m not.” The words are sharper than I intended. Swallowing, I hide my shaking hands in the folds of my skirt. “I don’t play.”

Not anymore.

The man nods. “May I then?” He gestures toward the piano. I step aside, and he sits on the bench.

I should leave. I still don’t know why I came down here. But I can’t draw myself away.

Resting his fingers silently on the keys, the man looks up at me. The cuffs of his worn tweed suit don’t reach his wrists. “I think I’ve seen you around the college before, but we haven’t met. I’m Thomas.”

It’s certainly possible our paths have crossed—I’m one of the few ladies who have dared to attend a university. I hesitate before answering. “Aria.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Aria.”

I release a breath. Maybe he doesn’t recognize my name. Maybe he won’t ask me questions about that night.

Turning back to the piano, Thomas begins to play. An allegro melody—con brio—fills the air, the acoustics reaching the far corners of the room.

My body tenses. Flames lick at the corners of my mind. My chest tightens.

My heart also aches. A part of me yearns for the music, to be swallowed up in sound. But the memories keep me too tense for that.

Several minutes slip by, still but for the flowing melody. Thomas’s fingers skip across the keys. I’m unable to leave, torn between fear and longing.

The song decrescendos down to a pianissimo, and Thomas speaks softly over the music. “I was there the night of the fire.”

Chills run across my body.

His gaze flickers up to meet mine. “I understand why you stopped playing. Something like that would scar anyone.”

The recital had been for me, the upcoming pianist prodigy. No one knows how the blaze started, only that it began below the stage. Flames broke through the boards while I was playing, surrounding me with a wall of fire.

I rub the burn scars on my arm. I’d made it out that night, but not unscathed. Closing my eyes, I take a shuddering deep breath. Thomas switches the melody to a softer, sweeter tune. It’s a balm for my nerves.

I may have cut myself off from music, but it’s still an intrinsic part of me. My name isn’t the only way it has marked me.

The melody flows, settling my mind.

Thomas’s baritone breaks my thoughts, startling my eyes open. “Did you ever finish it?”

“Finish what?”

He pauses at a fermata, silence filling the space between us. “Your song. The one you wrote.”

Phantom heat presses against my skin. I’d been playing an original composition for the recital when the fire started.

“I’d only written one copy. It burned.”

I don’t tell him the song is engraved on my heart. That it’s the countermelody to the memories of fire and terror.

Thomas looks back at the piano and resumes his song. “That’s unfortunate. It was lovely.”

The lilting triplets make my fingers twitch against my skirt. I haven’t had an urge to play like this since that night.

“Besides, it’s a shame to leave a song unresolved,” he adds before the song explodes with a sforzando.

We’re silent in the music once more. The ache to touch the keys grows, almost overwhelming the trepidation.

Thomas must sense my inner battle, because the notes rallentando and fade away. He puts his hands in his lap, turning toward me. “Would you like to play?”

“I…” Hesitation cripples me.

“It doesn’t have to be a solo. You can play, and I’ll create a harmony, if that would help,” Thomas offers.

He slides down the bench. Taking a deep breath, I sit next to him. My fingers hover over the keyboard once more. Fighting to control the shaking, I touch the keys. The polished ivory cools my fingers.

Measures of silence pass. Then I push a key—E flat—down. One note, followed by another. My melody wobbles, the tempo falters. But Thomas’s bass improv grounds it and steadies me.

Notes, accidentals, and dynamics flood my mind. I close my eyes, letting the song pour out of me. My fingers glide across the keys.

Bottled emotions bleed into the music. The sound soars, filling the hall. My soul soars with it.

Vaguely, I sense Thomas stop playing, the low notes fading away. But I keep playing. The notation in my head shifts, adding in new key changes and grace notes. I’ve changed, and my song has changed with me.

The cadenza builds. My fingers fly. And with a final tremolo and chord, a hush falls once more.

Stillness settles over me. The memories of the fire no longer roar. I’ve let them haunt me far too long.

“That was beautiful,” Thomas whispers.

I look down at the keys and take a breath. “I think it’s time I started writing”—my voice catches—“living a new song.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Hailey Huntington loves adventures, and she’s always ready for another one—whether it’s discovering Narnia, traveling across Middle Earth, hiking a mountain in Iceland, or simply going on a walk with her family. Aside from adventures, Hailey also loves board games, music, ice cream, laughter, witty characters, fantasy, emojis, and Jesus—though not in that order.

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