The soft creak of the apartment door echoed through the dim hallway as Lila stepped inside, her footsteps hesitant. Arden followed close behind, his silent presence as unnerving as it was inevitable. Her tiny living space, usually a refuge, felt different tonight. The clutter of sheet music and worn books seemed oppressive rather than comforting, as though her world had suddenly shrunk under the weight of her new reality.
On the scarred wooden table, the violin rested in an almost ethereal glow beneath the yellow-tinted lamp. It seemed to pulse faintly, like a heart beating, tethering her to something she didn't fully understand yet couldn't escape.
Arden leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his perpetual smirk etched into place. "You look like someone just told you the world was ending."
Lila shot him a sharp glare, tossing her bag onto the couch. "Forgive me if I'm not adjusting to this whole ghost mentor tethered to my soul thing with the grace of a ballerina."
His smirk widened, teasing but not unkind. "You'll adjust. Most people do. Eventually."
"Wait," Lila said, narrowing her eyes. "You've done this before?"
Arden's casual shrug made her bristle. "Once or twice." His voice was light, but a shadow flickered across his face. "It's been a while, though. And to be fair, none of them played quite like you."
Lila blinked, taken aback by the unexpected warmth in his words. She fought the flush creeping up her neck and turned her focus back to the violin. "What happened to them? The others?"
The humor drained from Arden's face, leaving behind something heavier, quieter. His gaze drifted to the window, where the faint hum of city lights seemed impossibly distant. "That's not important," he said finally. "What matters is you. Your journey. Your choices."
"That's not an answer," Lila pressed, suspicion sharpening her voice.
"No," Arden admitted, his voice low, "it's not. And you're not ready for the real one."
Her instinct was to argue, but something in his expression stopped her. His eyes, so vivid and piercing, carried a weight that words couldn't convey—a depth carved by countless stories untold.
"Fine," she muttered, sinking onto the couch. "What now? Do I just keep playing and hope I don't ruin your afterlife?"
Arden tilted his head, the faintest trace of amusement returning. "Playing isn't the problem. It's the why behind the playing that matters. The violin chose you for a reason. It sees something in you, something unfinished."
"Unfinished?" she echoed, her brow furrowing.
He nodded, his voice softer now. "Music isn't just sound. It's a mirror. It reflects truths we hide, fears we bury, and dreams we're too afraid to chase. Right now, your music is filled with all of that, but it's missing one thing—resolution."
Lila stiffened, his words cutting closer than she wanted to admit. "You don't know anything about me."
"Don't I?" Arden challenged, stepping closer. "I know you play like you're trying to outrun something. I know every note you produce is soaked in longing, fear, and doubt. And I know that deep down, you're terrified of being seen."
Her breath caught, her defenses cracking under the weight of his words. "Get out of my head," she snapped, the sharpness of her voice betraying her vulnerability.
"I'm not in your head," Arden said gently. "I'm in your music. And whether you like it or not, it's telling me everything."
Lila stood abruptly, pacing the cramped room. Her hands clenched into fists as her mind raced. "This is insane. I don't need a ghost to psychoanalyze me. I just need to—"
"To what?" Arden interrupted, his tone sharper now. "To prove yourself to people who'll never see your worth? To chase a dream you don't even believe in anymore?"
Lila froze, his words striking a nerve she didn't know was exposed.
"Listen to me," he said, stepping into her line of sight. "The violin is a gift, but it's also a responsibility. If you want to use it—really use it—you have to stop running. Face what you're hiding from and pour it into your music. Otherwise, you'll be stuck. Forever."
The room fell silent, the tension thick and unyielding. For a long moment, Lila couldn't bring herself to respond.
---
The next morning, sunlight spilled through the curtains, illuminating the violin's polished surface. Lila sat at the table, her fingers hovering above its strings, unsure if she could do what Arden had asked.
Across the room, Arden leaned against the wall, his presence quiet yet unrelenting. There was no smirk today, only patient determination.
Lila took a shaky breath, her doubts clawing at her resolve. She placed the bow on the strings and began to play.
The first notes wavered, hesitant and fragile. But as the melody unfolded, something shifted inside her. Memories bubbled to the surface, unbidden and raw: her father's warm laughter, her mother's soft embrace, the late nights spent practicing until her fingers bled. Then came the darker moments—the sting of rejection, the crushing weight of loneliness, the endless fear of never being enough.
Tears blurred her vision, but she didn't stop. The music flowed, unfiltered and honest, each note a confession she couldn't voice aloud.
When the final note hung in the air, the silence that followed was almost deafening. Lila set the violin down, her hands trembling.
Arden stepped forward, his expression unreadable. "That," he said softly, "was real."
Lila wiped her cheeks, her chest heaving. "I don't even know what I just played."
"You played yourself," Arden said simply. "And that's the first step."
For the first time in years, Lila felt something shift inside her—a crack in the wall she had built around her heart. It wasn't freedom, not yet, but it was enough to let in a sliver of light.
"What now?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Now," Arden said, his eyes gleaming with quiet determination, "we see how far your music can take you."