Ebony Castle Chapter 14.1

It was the second time Doha had come to the Locke Holdings building. Marilyn Kushner, who had been waiting for Doha in the lobby, led him up to the second floor.

“This will be your temporary office until the construction is finished. Last week, there were still some things left in the gallery downstairs, but today, it’s all cleared out.”

The room she opened and showed him seemed more than just a temporary office; it already looked fully functional. Along one wall was a counter lined with kitchen appliances, from an espresso machine to what seemed like brand-new kitchen gadgets. By the window sat leather sofas that gave off the scent of fresh upholstery. Marilyn guided Doha to the main seat and asked casually.

“What would you like? Coffee?”

“Ah, yes.”

“Just so you know, I can only manage capsule coffee. Even after reading the manual, I can’t figure out why they gave us that giant machine.”

The large espresso machine was the same professional model Jean used back at the estate. Recalling Jean’s swift hand movements, Doha figured it would indeed be difficult for an ordinary person to operate. Marilyn pulled out a box filled with different types of capsules and rummaged through it while speaking.

“Well, maybe one of the new hires will know how to use it.”

She popped a capsule into the machine and leaned against the counter. The small machine hissed, and the faint scent of coffee began to fill the room. Doha sat up straight but eventually relaxed into the soft sofa, slowly blinking. The warmth of the office made him feel drowsy.

“Here you go.”

Marilyn set down two cups of coffee, placing one in front of Doha before sitting down. Doha straightened up and picked up the cup.

“Thank you.”

As Doha took a sip of the coffee, Marilyn pulled out a slim business card case and laid two cards neatly on the table.

“I didn’t get a chance to properly introduce myself last time. This card won’t be in use after next month, but please keep it as a reference.”

One of the cards facing Doha was from the new management company, whose name was on the contract he had signed that morning and on the building’s door. The other card bore the logo of a famous opera company that even Doha recognized, along with the title “Marilyn Kushner, M.A., Head of Planning.” Doha blinked in surprise at the unexpectedly high position.

“When Tristan Locke’s secretary contacted me two weeks ago, I immediately turned it down without a second thought. No matter how good the offer was, or how much I loved Eden’s piano, I was already satisfied with my work at the opera company.”

Marilyn sat cross-legged on the sofa and continued after taking a sip of coffee.

“Then last week, Mr. Locke came to see me in person.”

“…Really?”

She glanced at Doha and smiled.

“I knew he had returned to London from the articles that morning, but I never imagined I’d meet him that day. It was raining, and a black car was waiting in front of my house. A bodyguard held up an umbrella, the door opened, and there he was….”

Marilyn mimicked the gesture of someone politely holding an umbrella and shrugged.

“Before I knew it, I was agreeing to the offer.”

“…Yes, that tends to happen.”

Having experienced the same almost bewitching presence in the hotel room yesterday, Doha fully understood. Just her brief description brought back the image of the drizzly rain on the day Tristan returned to London. It was a day when his face seemed to appear on every TV screen. It was easy to imagine the elegant man stepping out of the car with his security detail surrounding him like a royal escort.

Marilyn added lightly as she sipped her coffee.

“Seeing him in person, I could understand the reports that his disappearance was due to health issues. At the time, I thought it was a flimsy excuse.”

“……”

“His face was pale, and he didn’t look well at all. His personal doctor was even in the car. …Given that, how could I have said no?”

Doha set his coffee cup down. His heart was pounding, and his mouth suddenly felt dry. Marilyn, busy taking out her notebook from her pocket, didn’t notice Doha’s reaction and continued nonchalantly.

“Anyway, that’s how things turned out, and now I’ll be going back and forth for handover tasks until the end of this month. Please bear with me for a while, and I look forward to working with you.”

“I look forward to working with you too.”

Doha’s mouth moved automatically. Marilyn pressed down on a fresh page in her notebook and clicked her ballpoint pen. She looked up at Doha and said cheerfully.

“Shall we go big with your comeback recital?”

“…Go big?”

The ominous tone made Doha ask again, and Marilyn tucked the pen behind her ear and flipped back through the notebook pages. Soon, a series of names of large concert halls in London flowed effortlessly from her lips.

“…Or the Barbican would be good, but there’s a cancellation, so the only available date is early next month, which is tight. Wigmore Hall is sensible with great acoustics, but it’s a bit small. While it’s perfect for overseas, for your home ground here in London… Oh, and we’ll line up a tour immediately after the recital. Do you have any cities or halls you prefer? Even if not right away, would you like to go back to Korea? For the buzz, that might be a good idea.”

It felt like a conversation with Richard Evans from three years ago when he was talking about a world tour while handing over a contract. But back then, Doha had just won a competition, secured a major record deal, and everyone around him was predicting a brilliant future, making Richard’s words seem realistic.

Now, Doha remained silent until the end of Marilyn’s proposal. He remembered Richard, who had alternated between coaxing and berating him over the phone after Doha expressed his intention not to renew his contract yesterday. Doha looked down at his hands resting on his lap before speaking.

“I know you liked my piano playing in the past, but… shouldn’t you first listen to what I can play now before scheduling anything big?”

He couldn’t imagine filling a concert hall with over a thousand seats and satisfying the audience with his performance. He knew his own hesitation was a disservice to Marilyn, who had joined this company for him, but he couldn’t help it. People who go through hardships are said to come out stronger, but Doha felt like he had only shrunk, losing his confidence. As Richard had harshly said at the end of their call yesterday, Doha wouldn’t even have Neim as an excuse for his future failures.

“I’d love to hear you play.”

Marilyn replied calmly.

“But if you’re worried about whether your current skill is enough for a comeback, I don’t think you need to be.”

Doha thought more platitudes were coming and glanced up briefly. Marilyn, who had stood to adjust the heater, added casually, “Tristan Locke has the sharpest ear of anyone I know. If he trusts your piano playing enough to invest so much money, who would dare argue otherwise?”

“…”

“If you’re still unsure about yourself, just trust Mr. Locke’s judgment for now.”

Marilyn turned off the heater and smiled gently as she walked back toward Doha. “And please, just call me Mari.”

“I will, Mari.”

Doha felt a tightening sensation in his throat. All of a sudden, he found himself wanting to see Tristan. The man who would come downstairs late at night with damp hair to hand over his sheet music. Even though he knew Tristan was somewhere in this building, Doha missed him as if he were far away in Scotland.

***

A few days later, Doha stood in the hallway outside the studio of the mentor he had often waited for as a student. Leaning against the wall, he flexed and straightened his fingers, which he had warmed up earlier that morning in the practice room. The short, bi-daily Neim treatments seemed to be effective, as Daniel had complimented his hand’s condition when they met briefly at a café in Mayfair yesterday, even reducing his rehabilitation schedule. Compared to the last time he had seen his mentor at Julian’s concert, Doha’s hands were indeed looking more like hands again.

The sound of a door opening and voices spilling into the hallway reached him. A group of university students, who looked quite young, noisily walked past, stealing glances at Doha before quieting down as they passed. Three of them carried flute cases, and one held a horn case with chipped edges.

The familiar bustle of campus life felt strangely nostalgic. Just like the news Julian had passed on about their mutual friends, Doha knew that many of these students would put down their instruments after graduation. What had once been theoretical knowledge during his university years had now become a tangible reality around him. Very few would survive as soloists, and the competition to join a prestigious orchestra was fierce.

Still, most music students managed to live on, even after placing their instrument cases on the top shelf after graduation. They had music, yes, but they also had other things that composed their happiness: futures with families, raising children, meeting friends after work, and sharing brunch with their parents on weekend mornings.

Doha, on the other hand, always had an empty life, possessing nothing but the piano. If he couldn’t play music, he had no idea where he would go.

The door creaked open, and a young woman with a round face stepped out of the mentor’s studio.

“…”

Doha picked up his sheet music bag and cautiously stepped through the open door. The room, with its two grand pianos placed side by side, was exactly as he remembered from his student days.

Before Doha could even greet him, the elderly professor, seated on the piano stool by the window, gestured toward the other piano.

“Hand me the sheet music.”

“Yes.”

Doha placed his bag on the stool, organized the sheet music, and handed it over. The professor, with his wrinkled hands, began flipping through the pages. Doha sat at the left piano, pushed the stool back, and adjusted the height by turning the lever. He pressed the pedals a few times and loosened his fingers with a simple scale.

After finishing the scale, the professor, still looking through the sheet music, said, “Start with Scriabin. Only the third movement of Mozart. For Chopin, play Étude No. 11 instead of this piece.”

“Yes.”

The atmosphere felt so much like an exam that even Doha, who was rarely nervous, felt his hands starting to sweat. He took a few deep breaths to calm himself and placed his hands on the keys.

It had been a while since he’d played on the piano in his mentor’s studio. As he immersed himself in the music, the familiar resonance of the sound occasionally felt nostalgic. He remembered the early days of his studies when his English was so poor that the professor would spend entire lessons playing the same passages for him on the other piano without saying a word.

Scriabin and Mozart went smoothly as he had prepared. The last piece, Chopin’s Étude No. 11, was trickier. He hadn’t played it in years, and the finger movements were demanding. With a sense of plunging into deep water, Doha wiped his palm on his clothes before beginning.

After the slow, calm introduction, the music became intense and turbulent. Relying solely on muscle memory, it felt as though his current state was being laid bare in the performance. It seemed as if his mentor, seated at the other piano, could hear all the desperation and anxiety that Doha had carried with him.

If the flight of a bird soaring to new heights was natural and graceful, then the struggle of trying to climb back up after a fall would surely be tinged with something pitiful and desperate. The days spent curled up under the musty sheets with aching hands, the memories of kneeling before Tristan Locke and what had happened in that bathroom in Edinburgh—all of it seemed to seep into his performance. A musician’s music inevitably reflected the shape of the time they had endured.

“…”

After finishing the short piece, Doha lowered his burning hands from the keys. When he finally turned his head, his mentor, sitting straight at the piano, was silent.

Doha rested his hands on his knees and waited. The sky outside was a dull, gloomy gray. Faint sounds of students chatting as they passed by could be heard through the door.

Finally, the professor gathered Doha’s sheet music into a stack and handed it back to him, saying, “Can you come twice a week in the evenings?”

“Yes.”

He answered immediately, and the professor nodded. As the professor stood up, Doha followed suit. After packing his sheet music back into his bag, Doha gave a simple farewell, just as he had done as a student, and left the room.

It wasn’t until the door had closed behind him that Doha allowed himself to exhale the breath he had been holding. He quickly moved out of sight of the lesson room’s window, leaning against the wall until his pounding heart finally calmed down.

***

Today’s treatment had ended in the suite’s living room on the sofa, but when Doha opened his eyes, he found himself in bed. He pulled back the soft blanket covering him and lifted his head.

The sunlight filtering through the curtains was a somber shade of gray, typical of the afternoon. It was 1:50 p.m. When he had fallen asleep on the sofa, he could hear the sound of water from the bathroom, but now the room was silent. Tristan must have left for work after moving him to the bed, careful not to wake him.

Doha slowly lowered his heavy head back onto the pillow. Although he hadn’t had anything specific to say, sending Tristan off without a proper farewell after just sharing their bodies left him feeling oddly empty.

It had already been three weeks since Tristan had begun treating him in London. From what Doha could gather from recent economic news, Tristan had been busy restoring the company that had faltered during his year and a half absence. Within just ten days of his return, three executives had been dismissed from the parent company and its largest subsidiary. While Doha couldn’t fully understand all the business jargon in the articles, he assumed they were people who had overstepped their bounds in Tristan’s absence.

The gloomy weather made his eyelids grow heavier. The bedding was soft, and the large bed cradled his body in cozy warmth. Doha blinked slowly, trying not to fall asleep again.

Just then, the sound of the suite’s door opening faintly reached his ears.

“Oh…!”

Doha scrambled to get up from the bed, only to realize belatedly that he was completely naked. His hips ached as he stood up, and he couldn’t spot a bathrobe anywhere.

Having no other choice, he crawled back into bed and pulled the blanket over his lower half. His body tensed as he tilted his head, listening to the approaching footsteps. Soon, the pointed tip of a black shoe cast a sharp shadow on the bedroom threshold.

“…Eden?”

Tristan Locke, dressed neatly in a suit, looked into the room with a puzzled expression.

“Are you awake?”

“Yes. I thought… you’d already left?”

“I came back for something I forgot.”

He disappeared from view, and from the sound of things, he found what he was looking for in the living room.

Doha, noticing the bathrobe on the floor, quickly put it on. Walking as steadily as possible, he exited the bedroom and saw Tristan already standing by the entrance. He was adjusting his watch and sleeves while picking up his briefcase. Doha awkwardly stopped by the sofa. The fleeting warmth he had felt upon waking was gone, and now Tristan, dressed for business, felt distant and unfamiliar.

Tristan, after putting his briefcase on the side table by the door, turned back toward Doha.

“Are you planning to head straight to practice now?”

“Yes. Oh… I understand I can’t leave with you.”

He added this, worried Tristan might misunderstand. The secretary had already informed him not to be seen with Tristan outside the hotel room.

Tristan, who had been looking at him, placed his briefcase back on the table and said, “It’s good that you’re awake. I was about to leave a note… I have something to ask.”

“What is it?”

He looked at Tristan, unsure of what to expect. Tristan paused for a moment before speaking again.

“Are you busy tomorrow? There’s somewhere I’d like to take you.”

“Tomorrow? I have a lesson in the evening, but other than that, I’m free. I was planning to practice as usual.”

“Then, shall we meet at eleven in the morning?”

It was so unexpected that Doha nodded before he could process it. Would this replace tomorrow’s treatment? Seemingly anticipating his thoughts, Tristan continued.

“This has nothing to do with your treatment, so we’ll have a session the day after tomorrow as usual.”

“Yes.”

“We’ll be seeing quite a bit of each other for the time being.”

He smiled as he spoke, the corners of his smooth lips lifting, casting a golden sheen beneath his lashes. Doha felt a sudden, inexplicable prickling in his chest and reached down to fidget with the armrest of the sofa.

Tristan glanced at his watch and said, “I should have more free time starting next week. It’s been busy catching up after being away, but things are settling down now.”

“That’s good to hear,” Doha said earnestly. It was a relief that he would have more time to rest. Doha remembered the time when, after a treatment session, Tristan had fallen into a deep sleep beside him. His phone had rung three times with calls from his secretary, but Doha hesitated to wake him, eventually shaking him gently. Tristan had gotten up without a word, his eyes bloodshot from exhaustion. Doha had thought then that if it weren’t for the treatment sessions, Tristan might have had a chance to take a much-needed nap, even if only briefly.

“Yes, it’s fortunate,” Tristan replied.

“I’ll also be able to spend more time on your treatment. Thirty minutes has been far too short.”

“Oh… the treatment feels sufficient as it is.”

Doha almost showed him how well his fingers were functioning now but stopped upon seeing the expression on Tristan’s face. In the daylight, his gray eyes briefly flashed with a fierce intensity. Tristan blinked, then picked up his briefcase again.

“Well, perhaps it feels sufficient to you, but it never feels like enough for me.”

“…”

Before Doha could respond, Tristan opened the door leading to the hallway.

“It’s late, so I should go. Can you come to the office tomorrow morning?”

“Yes, I’ll be there.”

“Then I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The door closed neatly behind him. Doha stood still for a moment, then tightened the loosened robe knot as he walked barefoot back across the living room. He limped toward the pile of clothes he had set aside to change into after washing, but something caught his eye: a memo pad on the corner of the table.

He paused and looked down at the table. On the black leather square, an elegant note was written in neat cursive on the fine paper, embossed with the hotel’s name and watermark.

Did you sleep well? Contact me when you wake up.

-T

Doha turned away but stopped again. Reaching out, he carefully tore the first page from the memo pad, slipping the note between the stiff pages of his music folder before grabbing his clothes and heading to the bathroom to get ready.

***

Eleven o’clock in the morning was too early to stop by the practice room beforehand. Doha took the subway early, feeling a bit anxious about his evening lesson and the recital he was preparing for in a month. His hand was improving steadily, but regaining his former skill wasn’t happening as easily as he’d hoped. Even with several more years of practice, there was a chance he might never fully recover his old technique.

His teacher knew this and was actively supporting Doha’s efforts to expand his repertoire. Over three lessons, he had guided Doha through twelve pieces, invited a colleague to give him additional instruction, and at the end of each lesson, handed him books and scores to study. It felt like being back at school, though without attending formal classes.

Doha arrived in front of Locke Holdings at 10:30. He pulled out his entry card when his phone buzzed with a call from Marilyn.

— Eden, I heard you’re coming to the office today. Do you have a moment to stop by my office as well?

“How about now? I have about thirty minutes.”

— Perfect timing. Come on up.

When Doha arrived on the second floor, the office was messier than the week before. Papers, pamphlet samples, and other items were scattered across the once-pristine desks, and the furniture had been rearranged. Marilyn, sitting behind a large desk near the wall, stood up with a bright smile when she saw him.

“Good morning, Eden. Please, have a seat. The weather’s a bit milder today, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is.”

Late February meant winter was nearing its end. As she asked if he’d like some coffee, Marilyn walked toward the coffee machine.

“How do you feel about the program templates in front of you? Do any of them stand out?”

“These?”

“Yes.”

Doha picked up the file containing the program samples and began flipping through them. Some were simple, text-only designs, while others were full-color, using photos and graphics.

“Take a look at this one too.”

Marilyn placed a cup of coffee in front of Doha and rummaged through a pile of papers on her desk, eventually pulling out a large booklet filled with various concert posters.

“I got this from the printing company we work with. It’s been a while since I personally handled posters and programs… Oh, this one is bold and eye-catching, don’t you think?”

The poster she pointed to featured a close-up of a pianist’s dramatically highlighted face, down to each eyebrow hair. It was the kind of poster Julian Svensson might appreciate. To prevent a similar disaster of having his own face plastered in such detail, Doha quickly flipped through the booklet and showed her a couple of more traditional poster designs.

“I think something like these would be better.”

“Hmm… Eden, you have quite a classical taste.”

She noted down the poster numbers in her notebook, then also jotted down the numbers for the program samples Doha had selected before closing her notebook.

“Thanks. I’ll keep these in mind when I hand off the design work.”

“Isn’t it too much for you to handle all of this by yourself?”

From what Doha could see, there were over ten desks in the office, but all were still empty. Marilyn sighed as she cleared the booklet and pulled another task toward herself.

“Two more people will start tomorrow, and another one next week. It’s not ideal, but as the recital gets closer, you’ll need a manager to drive you around and handle errands. Lowell said he’d hire someone himself, but I haven’t heard anything yet. At first, I thought he had someone in mind, but now I’m not so sure. I guess he thinks my standards aren’t stringent enough.”

Doha immediately understood the situation. It was likely because of Neim. The secretary seemed to want to keep Neim a secret from the management company, including Marilyn. It made sense that hiring a manager who would often be around Doha was proving difficult.

At that moment, someone suddenly came to mind. Noticing the brief hesitation in his expression, Marilyn asked, “Do you have someone in mind? It’s mostly just driving and running errands since I’ll be handling the actual schedule.”

“Yes. I do have someone, but…”

Doha explained that Niklas, who had worked as his manager at his previous agency, had recently quit that job. Marilyn listened thoughtfully but frowned slightly.

“Familiarity is good, but there might be a non-compete clause preventing him from moving to another company in the same industry. It might be better to find someone with more experience… But just in case, leave me his contact details.”

“You’re right. And before that, I’m not sure if Niklas would even be interested.”

Doha wrote down Niklas’s name and number on the paper Marilyn handed him, deciding he would talk to Lowell and then reach out to Niklas.

“Alright then.”

Marilyn picked up a stack of papers and said, “As I mentioned over the phone, we’ll need the finalized setlist by next week at the latest. You understand, right?”

“Yes, I’ll confirm it soon.”

“I’m looking forward to seeing the final program.”

Doha took the cup of coffee and moved to the window. Holding the now lukewarm coffee cup with both hands, he stood there for a while, gazing at the weather outside.

Seeing the program samples made everything feel more real. He could still feel the smooth texture of the paper on his fingertips. In about a month, posters with his name and face would be lined up in front of the concert hall, and the seats would be filled with people who came to hear him play. It was a short recital, but it would be his first official performance as Eden Yeon in two and a half years.

“…”

The image of the office faded, and the blindingly bright stage lights filled his vision. A muffled ringing echoed in his ears.

It was his last performance, one that replayed in his dreams every night for a time. When he opened his eyes, his hands were frozen on the keys, like pale, lifeless flesh. He could hear the growing murmurs from the audience, and then someone’s derisive shout. When he turned his head, he could clearly see the faces of the audience in the front row. Each one wore a look of shock, their mouths hanging open.

It was a memory he had long tried to bury, hoping that the sharp pain of it would dull over time, and that the color of despair would fade.

Without realizing it, Doha reached for the handle of his bag. The sharp corner of the keychain dug into his damp palm. Clenching the dark brown wood tightly, he blinked, and the bright Mayfair street under a blue sky returned to his view. In just a few seconds, his back was soaked in cold sweat.

***

Doha thought that perhaps Tristan would arrange to meet him somewhere discreet rather than the company lobby. However, to his surprise, Tristan came down to the lobby without any special notice. Doha was chatting with Marilyn when he heard the sound of the elevator arriving.

“…I’ve made the reservation for noon. The drive is quite long, so I’ll be driving to give you a chance to rest…”

It was the secretary’s voice. As the elevator doors opened, Tristan and the secretary came into view.

“That won’t be necessary.”

Noticing Doha staring at him, Tristan raised his eyebrows slightly. As Doha continued to gaze at him, unaware of himself, the corners of Tristan’s eyes curved ever so subtly into a barely noticeable smile.

“I’ll make sure I’m not late.”

“This is an important lunch meeting, so you really can’t afford to be late today.”

After giving Tristan a final reminder, the secretary stepped aside and glanced at Doha. Though the increasingly lengthy treatment sessions weren’t technically Doha’s fault, they were likely becoming a headache for someone in charge of managing their boss’s schedule. Doha felt a small pang of guilt.

“Mr. Yeon, here you are. Let’s head out once the car arrives.”

Tristan checked his watch as he spoke. Though he addressed Doha by the same title as before, his tone was much more casual, like when they were alone.

“Marilyn, are you heading out for an errand?”

“Yes, I should get going now. Have a good trip, both of you.”

“….”

Doha realized from the knowing smile on Marilyn’s face and Tristan’s casual response that she already knew where they were headed. Apparently, Tristan had informed her beforehand, even though he hadn’t told Doha.

Now that he thought about it, Tristan had only said they were going somewhere together; he hadn’t mentioned whether it was work-related or not. Doha had attended parties, networking events, and dinners with industry professionals at Richard’s request back when he was with his previous agency.

He glanced down awkwardly at his own outfit: a sweater and black jeans under his coat. Though it didn’t matter what he wore to play the piano, he thought it might have been better to at least wear a pressed shirt if he’d known.

“Let’s go.”

Tristan started walking, and Doha followed him across the lobby. He blinked in surprise when he saw the car waiting outside the company’s glass doors. It wasn’t the usual large black car but a sleek silver sports car straight out of a sci-fi movie.

“CEO.”

The driver stepped out of the car, leaving the door open, and stepped aside. The secretary and Marilyn stood by the company entrance, watching the scene unfold.

“Get in.”

Tristan casually took his place in the driver’s seat.

“Please get in, Mr. Eden,” said the man who had brought the car, holding the passenger door open.

Doha looked briefly at the car they’d be sharing alone, set his music score bag on the floor by his feet, and took his seat. To wave at Marie, he had to lean and crane his neck upwards. The low-slung seats felt nearly level with the ground.

The door closed, and without a driver or security guard, the car sped away. The engine purred as the sports car slid quickly through Mayfair’s stately townhouses.

“…….”

Inside the car, it was oddly silent. Doha fiddled with his seatbelt, releasing the breath he had been holding and inhaling anew. Blended with the car’s air freshener was a faint hint of Tristan’s cool cologne.

Glancing at the front window, then to the side, he noticed Tristan’s pale hand loosely resting on the unusual round steering wheel. Unlike Doha, who was still adjusting to the seat angle, Tristan leaned back comfortably. His lips, pressed into an impassive line, almost looked roguish.

“I didn’t know you liked this kind of car,” Doha muttered, unable to mask his unfamiliarity. People on the street kept glancing their way. The sedan Tristan drove from the estate had been far weightier and more refined.

“I don’t particularly like it,” Tristan replied, turning to him with a surprised look.

“Why? Is it not to your taste?”

“No, it’s not that.”

The man beside him felt like a stranger yet again. Tristan, in plain clothes back at the forested estate, seemed like someone out of sync with the 21st century—a vampire transcending time itself. If he were a character rather than a person, he’d be riding an expensive horse in a 19th-century British novel, not speeding through the West End in a sports car.

Looking effortlessly modern in a tailored suit and chic car, Tristan glanced at Doha with a hint of amusement and smiled.

“We’re almost there.”

The car had entered Soho, the streets narrowing and the buildings becoming more colorful. Doha held back a question about their destination, remembering again that Marilyn knew about it before he did.

“It should be about a ten-minute walk from the office,” Tristan commented as he parked in an empty spot.

“It would take longer from the hotel, so you’ll probably want to grab a taxi.”

“…Here….”

Doha looked up curiously at the nondescript white building. Like many in London, its exterior offered no hints about what lay inside, and it didn’t seem like a place Tristan would bring him to in broad daylight.

“Oh, take your bag with you.”

“Yes.”

Following Tristan’s suggestion, Doha leaned down to retrieve his heavy music bag.

When Tristan exited the car, a few people across the street glanced his way but didn’t approach or take photos. Doha followed him into the building and joined him in the elevator. There were no labels next to the floor buttons. Tristan scanned a security card and pressed the button for the top floor.

“Who lives here?” Doha asked, but though Tristan clearly heard him, he didn’t answer. Doha noticed a slight, mischievous tilt at the corner of his mouth.

“Tristan.”

Half in disbelief, Doha called his name just as the elevator chimed to a stop. Tristan unlocked the heavy, dark door in front of them and then stepped aside, letting Doha go first.

“Try opening it yourself.”

“Without even knocking?”

“…….”

When he looked back, Tristan was smiling with the same mischievous expression he had when opening the fridge at Jean’s place. Forgetting his question, Doha gripped the heavy door handle and pulled. A flood of golden sunlight poured right up to where his toes touched the floor.

Mesmerized, he took a step inside. The space beyond the entrance was bathed in sunlight, with exceptionally high ceilings. The ceiling arched in a soft, oval-shaped dome, and the long, wide window across the opposite wall let in light that warmly illuminated the wooden floors.

In the spacious, elegant room, two grand pianos faced each other in the center. One was a black Steinway concert grand he had last seen in the dining hall at the estate. Back then, he had been too exhausted to play it properly, though he had regrettably touched the keys a few times.

The other was a piano he hadn’t seen before. It had four pedals, and its dark brown wood grain and hue were unique. Unconsciously, Doha circled halfway around it, then, spotting the gold logo, he murmured, almost in a daze, “Fazioli….”

“We moved it yesterday and finished tuning, but we’ll need to do it again after it settles. If you have a preferred tuner, just let me know,” Tristan said, leaning on a nearby chair’s armrest.

“The soundproofing and acoustics took longer than expected. I wanted to show you earlier.”

“…….”

Doha, overwhelmed, sat down on the Steinway’s stool. A Fazioli grand for practice was an extravagant perk far beyond anything mentioned in their contract. Both pianos were top-of-the-line, typically accessible only in concert halls for rehearsals or performances. Saving up to have even one of them at home someday would have been more than enough.

In fact, he might have had to sacrifice owning a home to afford one of these pianos. Just one of them, seen from afar, cost roughly the same as a small house outside of London.

“Eden.”

“…….”

“Do you like your practice room?”

Tristan asked softly. Doha looked up belatedly to see the man watching him with the gentlest eyes, softened by the sunlight.

“…Thank you.”

He struggled to finish the words, feeling a tightness in his chest and a sudden warmth flooding his cheeks. Letting out a shivery breath, he lowered his tingling hands to his lap and replied, “I’ll practice hard.”

Tristan observed him silently, then smiled with narrowed eyes.

“I’m sure you will. You always do. Want to see the other room?”

Doha followed Tristan, somewhat dazed, as he opened a door on the other side of the room. Next to the practice room, there was a bathroom, a kitchen, a table by the window, a soft couch, speakers, a turntable, a silver laptop, and shelves full of sheet music and books. In a corner room, there was even a plush-looking bed. Tristan opened the kitchen fridge, showing it fully stocked.

“Make sure to keep the fridge stocked with ready-to-eat meals, so you can have something here if you don’t feel like going out while practicing. Skipping meals isn’t good for your health,” Tristan said.

“…Alright.”

“If you need any specific books or sheet music, let Marie know. Feel free to ask for any food you’d like as well.”

Back in the practice room, Doha’s heart fluttered once more as he took in the sight of the two pianos bathed in sunlight. Perhaps it was the unusually beautiful weather, but he felt as if he’d stepped out of reality and into a bright, lucid dream. If this were a long, foolish dream of someone with unfulfilled desires, he imagined that the real him must be in a dim, cramped flat, hands curled into himself as he slept.

He blinked once, focusing on the Steinway by his side. Whoever had transported it had been meticulous, and not a scratch marred the polished surface of the piano that had traveled all the way from Scotland. Reaching out, he gently traced the black polish, peering under the raised lid to see the tightly strung golden strings and hammers lined up inside. This immense instrument could both overwhelm and support him, its slow, wide curves reflecting the light like waves.

“It looks like it might devour you,” Tristan commented, his voice tinged with amusement from behind. Lost in admiration, Doha turned around, snapping back to reality.

“It’s such a fine instrument… I regret not being able to play it properly when we were in Scotland.”

“Well, I remember having to stop you from practicing despite your condition back then.”

Tristan, leaning back in his chair, added, “Feel free to practice as you like. I’ll stay a while before I have to leave for a lunch meeting. I won’t be here too long.”

“Oh…”

Doha had momentarily forgotten that he would have to leave. He composed himself, lowered the lid to a middle height, and took his seat on the piano stool. He pressed down on the pedal and placed his fingers on the keys. A simple C-major scale; each note he played was clear and pure, like rays of light.

He looked back at Tristan, unable to contain his excitement. “May I play a piece for you before you go?”

Sitting elegantly in his chair, Tristan smiled. “I’d like that.”

“Then….”

Doha set his hands on his lap and thought for a moment. There were so many pieces he wanted to play that it was hard to choose. He had recently learned new pieces since coming to London and was also revisiting older ones for the recital.

After a moment of hesitation, he cleared his mind and decided. If this was a rare chance for him to hear, Doha would start with a piece he had long promised to play.

He closed his eyes and located the opening note with his left hand, beginning Chopin’s Nocturne in F minor. The piano beneath his fingers was no longer the worn instrument of the countryside house, and his hands were no longer clumsy or unstable. The music filled the practice room, reaching toward the sunlit windows, clear and unwavering.

The instrument responded to the most delicate touch, producing exactly the sounds he had imagined. Compared to the other piano he usually practiced on, it was as though he had been playing with a filter all along. Now, he felt the direct vibrations of the sound. As he approached the end of the piece, his excitement grew, and he felt as though he were drifting in a haze. Long after the last notes faded, he remained caught in its spell.

Tristan’s expression reflected the satisfaction of a true music lover. He closed his eyes briefly and then remarked, “Even for just that one piece, the investment was worth it.”

Doha, surprised by his rare praise, felt an indescribable warmth, like the satisfaction of a hearty meal. Looking down at the black and white keys, he heard the racing of his own heartbeat and turned to him. “Are you sure you won’t be late if you leave now?”

“Hmm…”

After checking his watch, Tristan seemed uncharacteristically hesitant, letting out a slight sigh. “It seems I could afford to leave three minutes later.”

Doha thought for a moment, then placed his hands back on the keys. He decided to hold off on trying the unfamiliar Fazioli and instead settled back in the Steinway’s stool, beginning Schumann’s Träumerei, “Dreaming.” He had used it as an encore piece a few times, a brief and simple melody that flowed gently from his fingertips.

Midway through the piece, he felt a presence beside him and opened his eyes. His heartbeat quickened sharply as he saw Tristan standing close, watching him.

He continued to play, half-closing his eyes as he gazed up at Tristan, who stood bathed in radiant light spilling over his shoulders like a golden cloak.

Their eyes met, and Tristan gave him a faint smile, his long lashes catching the light and shimmering slightly. With his quiet, beautiful eyes looking down at him, Doha felt as though the music itself was infused with sunlight.

Between each note, a warm tranquility flowed and shimmered—a dream untouched by any shadow of nightmares.

As the melody slowed to its close, Doha wished that it wouldn’t end, that this piece wouldn’t have to reach its final note. He wished the man watching him with such gentle eyes would stay by his side, never leaving.

In that moment of realization, Doha heard the faint echo of a closing door—a premonition of the ending awaiting him down the path he could not yet see. For the first time, he began to understand the meaning of his own quickened heartbeat whenever he thought of Tristan, and he caught a glimpse of the cruel end where that feeling would eventually lead.