The Unwritten Score

The aftermath was a blur.

Dmitri’s body was removed. The guests were ushered out. The betrayal was scrubbed clean, just another stain on the city’s soul.

The next morning, Ava stood by the door of the penthouse.

Her cello case was by her feet. She was wearing her own clothes—jeans, a sweater, her boots.

Nikolai stood by the window. He looked tired. The circles under his eyes were dark.

He walked over to her. He handed her a plane ticket. *Paris.* And a passport.

* You are free,* he signed. *Go.*

Ava looked at the ticket. It was a first-class seat to a life she understood. Concert halls. Applause. Safety.

She looked at Nikolai.

He had turned away. He was staring out at the frozen lake, his hands clasped behind his back. He was letting her go. He was saving her from himself.

Ava looked at the cello. Then she looked at the man who had learned her language just to tell her she was his.

She picked up the ticket.

She tore it in half.

She didn't drop the pieces. She walked over to the piano bench that sat near the window. She sat down.

Nikolai turned. He stared at the torn ticket in her hand. His expression crumbled—hope warring with fear.

* Why?* he signed.

Ava patted the bench beside her.

Nikolai hesitated. Then, slowly, he walked over and sat down. He was careful not to touch her, leaving a respectful distance.

Ava reached out. She took his hand—the hand that had killed men, the hand that had held her in the elevator.

She placed his hand on the wood of the piano. Then, she placed her other hand over his heart.

She could feel it beating. Strong. Steady. A rhythm she could understand.

She didn't promise him forever. She didn't promise him it would be easy. She simply closed her eyes, feeling the vibration of his life under her palm, and stayed in the silence with him, waiting for the next movement to begin.