The Composer Who Hears My Heart: Unspoken Melodies: Chapter 2

He knows my songs before I sing them

The lighthouse stands against the evening sky like a finger pointing toward hope.

I almost don't come.

But something about those notes, about the way he sees me when everyone else just sees broken, pulls me here anyway.

He's waiting at the base of the lighthouse, hands in his jacket pockets. Tall, lean, with dark hair that catches the dying light. When he turns, I see eyes the color of storm clouds.

"You came," he says, and his voice is warm honey over gravel.

I nod, suddenly self-conscious. What am I supposed to do here? How do we have a conversation when only one of us can speak?

He seems to understand my hesitation.

"I'm Kai," he says, pulling out a small notebook. "And I thought we could try something different."

He writes: What's your favorite sound?

I consider lying again. Giving him something safe, expected.

Instead, I write the truth: Rain on windows. When I was little, I used to pretend it was applause.

His smile transforms his entire face.

Mine too. But only when there's someone to share the storm with.

We pass the notebook back and forth as the sun melts into the ocean. Small questions that become bigger ones. Favorite books. Childhood fears. The way salt air tastes like possibilities.

Why did you stop performing? he writes eventually.

My pen hovers over the paper. The scar on my throat throbs like a remembered wound.

Surgery complications. The doctors say my voice might come back, but...

But you don't believe them.

It's not a question.

How can I believe in something I can't even whisper?

Kai sets the notebook aside and moves closer. Close enough that I can smell his cologne—cedar and ocean spray.

"Can I show you something?" he asks aloud.

Before I can respond, he places his hand on my chest, just above my heart. [heartbeat, strong]

"Close your eyes," he whispers.

I shouldn't trust a stranger this much. Shouldn't let him into my space, my brokenness.

But I do.

"Breathe with me," he says, and I feel his chest rise and fall against mine. "Feel the rhythm."

Our breathing synchronizes. In. Out. Like a song without sound.

"This is music too," he murmurs against my ear. "Your heart. Your breath. The way you exist in the world."

His words sink into me like warm honey.

"You don't need vocal cords to make music, Lily. You just need to remember how to feel it."

When I open my eyes, he's watching me with an intensity that makes my knees weak.

"How do you know so much about music?" I write.

Something shifts in his expression. A shadow crossing the sun.

I used to work in the industry. Before I came here.

Doing what?

He hesitates, then: Producing. Mostly for singers.

My blood goes cold.

What singers?

Another pause. Longer this time.

You might not know them. It was a different world back then.

But something in the way he won't meet my eyes tells me I would know them. That this mysterious stranger who sees through my silence might know more about my broken career than he's letting on.

Kai.

He looks up.

What's your last name?

The notebook sits between us like a landmine.

Finally, he writes: Rivers.

The world tilts sideways.

Kai Rivers. Producer of three Grammy-winning albums. The man who discovered half the artists I used to compete against. The man who...

Who turned down my demo two years ago with a form letter rejection.

The man who could have changed my life before the surgery changed it for me.

You know who I am, I write, my hand shaking.

Yes.

You knew the whole time.

Yes.

I stand up so fast the notebook falls to the sand.

Kai reaches for it, for me, but I'm already backing away.

"Lily, please—"

But I can't hear his explanation. Can't process that the stranger who's been healing my heart with handwritten notes is the same man who crushed my dreams with professional indifference.

I run.

And for the first time since losing my voice, I'm grateful for the silence.

Because the sound of my heart breaking would be too loud for anyone to bear.

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