And because of him, she never touched the piano again. Even though she knew her hands could still play melodies as beautiful as before, and despite her yearning to feel her fingertips dance across the piano keys, she never played again.
She became like that, driven by him.
Melancholy melodies began to wane into existence, lighting the room on the second floor of the Villa.
Awakened by the mournful, weighty tunes, Abigail Summer got out of bed and walked over to the French window that faced the Garden, gently lifting a corner of the curtain. There, reflected in the light on the surface of the Artificial Lake, she saw a handsome and extraordinary man sitting at the piano, his fingers producing a sorrowful tune.
In the blue light, the quiet night, the empty Manor, in an instant, this place became a kingdom of melancholy.
In such a scene, who could say this man didn't care?
Only in the dark of the night would he release the oppression and sadness buried in his heart.
