Chapter Text
The rain began at half past four, not with thunder, nor with the sort of dramatic downpour that poets exaggerated into omens and tragedies. It arrived quietly, a thin veil drifting over the city of Ezrest until rooftops became dark with moisture and windows gathered tiny droplets along their panes. By evening, the entire city smelled of wet stone.
The scent lingered in alleyways and clung to the hems of coats. Lanternlight reflected upon rain-slick cobblestones in wavering ribbons of gold and amber, transforming even the most ordinary streets into something worthy of a painting. With that etched, Agott Arklaum preferred rain, not because she found it beautiful, as that would imply sentimentality. Rather, rain served a practical purpose, for it kept people occupied. It discouraged unnecessary socialization, and most importantly, it muffled sound.
Rain softened the world into something manageable since it was quiet, and less demanding, which was why she found herself irritated when a carriage wheel splashed muddy water onto the cuffs of her stockings. Her irritation lasted precisely three seconds, then she continued walking.
There were more important matters to concern herself with, such as the recital. The hall was painfully small. A narrow building wedged between a bookseller’s shop and a bakery whose ovens remained active well into the evening. The scent of fresh bread occasionally drifted through the walls during performances. Agott despised that, due to her belief that music deserved complete attention, and not divided attention. Never distracted attention, to attain completeness, anything less felt disrespectful.
She pushed open the backstage door and immediately frowned. Someone had moved her sheet music, only by a few centimeters. Most people would never have noticed, and yet Agott noticed instantly. The stack had originally aligned perfectly with the edge of the table, now sat slightly crooked, a fraction of an inch off-center. She adjusted it again and again, then finally stepped back, satisfied. Only then did she remove her coat, afterwards, the coat was hung and folded neatly and carefully.
The umbrella was shaken exactly three times before being placed in a stand, nothing more, nothing less. A habit had formed years ago, she no longer remembered why.
The hall gradually filled with people. Artists, students, merchants, and a handful of local witches. It was neither unusual nor noteworthy. The audience consisted primarily of those seeking shelter from the weather, Agott was aware of this, though she chose not to dwell on it. If people listened, they listened, if they didn’t, they didn’t. The music itself remained unchanged.
A stagehand informed her that the recital would begin shortly. Agott thanked him, then immediately checked the piano twice. The bench? Three times. The pedals? Once. The keys? Every single one. A brief sequence of scales confirmed everything was functioning properly, only then did the knot in her chest loosen, although only slightly.
People often mistook Agott’s composure for confidence, even if the reality was far less glamorous. Confidence implied certainty, while Agott possessed very little certainty. Instead, she compensated through preparation relentlessly. Every note rehearsed, movement calculated, and possibility anticipated. She feared mistakes with the intensity others reserved for natural disasters, the difference was that mistakes happened far more frequently.
When she finally stepped onto the stage, the room fell silent, not because she was famous, she was not, not just yet, but because audiences always became quiet when someone sat before a piano. There was a peculiar sort of anticipation attached to instruments, a sense that anything could happen. Whether it be brilliance, disaster, transcendence, or embarrassment, nobody would find out until the very first note.
Agott adjusted her sleeves, straightened her posture, placed both hands upon the keys, and breathed. It was one time, then another, then she began.
The opening melody emerged softly, it was delicate and fragile, like the first ripple spreading across an otherwise still lake. The rain and piano had opened into a call-and-answer. The two sounds intertwined, neither competing nor overpowering, rather simply existing together.
Agott always played differently from her contemporaries; where others sought spectacle, she sought intimacy. Where others favored grand gestures, she preferred restraint. Listening to her felt less like attending a performance and more like accidentally discovering someone’s diary left open upon a desk. There was something intensely private about her music, not because it was sad, but due to the fact that people often confused melancholy with depth. Agott disliked that misconception, her compositions were not sad, as they were honest. Honesty often resembled sadness from a distance.
She lost herself gradually. Not all at once, but with subtle processes. From slightly relaxed shoulders to the diminishing awareness of the audience, it was the total disappearance of self-consciousness. Give it some time, and only the music will ever remain. Moonlight might have inspired the melody if there had been any moonlight. Instead, there was rain, gentle and persistent rain. A city breathing beyond the walls, while lanterns flickering against wet glass, and the distant tolling of a clocktower. Everything became part of the performance, all became rhythmical.
Near the back of the hall, the door opened. Only a few people noticed, yet Agott certainly didn’t, she was somewhere else entirely, somewhere beyond cobblestones and concert halls, somewhere built entirely from sound. The newcomer had paused briefly, while her blonde-green hair damp from rain. A crimson cloak draped carelessly over one shoulder, as her bright eyes scanned the room. Then, it moved towards the stage, and towards the girl who dared to sit before the piano. It was Coco.
Even before fame, Coco possessed a gravitational quality, people always noticed her, not because she demanded attention, rather, attention seemed to gather around her naturally. Just as sunlight finding glass, and sunflowers moving towards the sun.
Several audience members recognized her immediately. Whispers had spread, so small and excited, yet Coco ignored them. She chose a seat near the back, removed her gloves, crossed one leg over the other, and finally, listened.
The whispers stopped quickly. Agott continued playing despite it all, and partly because Coco stopped looking at anything except the stage. For perhaps the first time in weeks, Coco forgot herself, the invitations awaiting replies, upcoming performances, critics, audiences, expectations. They were all forgotten, only the music had remained.
There was something unusual about the performer, not merely talent for that is common. Coco encountered talented musicians constantly, but this was something different, something harder to articulate.
The girl played as though she expected nobody to understand. As though the act of expression mattered more than whether anyone received it. The melodies weren’t trying to impress, not begging for approval, they simply existed, entirely unconcerned with reception.
Coco found herself leaning forward, almost imperceptibly. The performance continued, for forty, fifty, and sixty minutes, then it dissolved. When the final piece arrived, even the rain seemed quieter. Agott’s fingers drifted across ivory keys with astonishing precision, yet precision wasn’t what captivated listeners, it was vulnerability. The strange feeling that every note carried fragments of something unspoken, unfinished, and full of yearn.
The final chord lingered, hung suspended in the air, then vanished. A long silence had followed, not awkward nor uncertain. It was simply reverent. Then applause erupted, the audience rose to their feet, hands collided, voices praised, and several people attempted to approach the stage. Agott hated this part, still, she bowed, once and quickly, then retreated backstage before anyone could stop her.
The familiar sanctuary of the preparation room greeted her. Her sheet music, coat, and umbrella. It was orderly, it was predictable. She exhaled, the performance had gone well, she thought, but not perfectly. The transition in the third movement had been slightly uneven, three notes during the second composition could have been cleaner, a phrase near the end lacked proper balance, but most listeners wouldn’t notice. Yet, Agott noticed.
She was reorganizing manuscripts when she sensed another presence nearby, it was not heard. It was sensed. Looking up, she found someone standing in the doorway. Blondish-green hair. A crimson cloak, with rainwater still clinging to the fabric. Agott recognized her immediately, as well as everyone.
Coco smiled, the sort of smile that seemed incapable of existing halfway, entirely genuine, wholly bright, completely Coco. For a moment, neither spoke. Coco’s gaze drifted toward the stacks of sheet music, each arranged with meticulous precision. The perfectly folded coat, aligned pencils, and the overall organized workspace. Then back toward Agott. Agott resisted the urge to adjust something, the silence felt uneven. Coco tilted her head slightly, she was studying and observing, not unlike a naturalist discovering an unfamiliar bird. The thing about Coco was that she watched people with genuine curiosity instead of judgement and calculation. It was curiosity, as though every person concealed an interesting story, as though every life possessed value.
Agott found it unsettling as most people looked at her and saw competence, aloofness, intelligence, and sometimes arrogance. Curiosity was hard to find in someone oh-so walled up like her. The silence stretched, it was not uncomfortable, even if it was strange. Outside, rain continued marching against the windows, the bakery next door prepared fresh bread for the morning. After each spectacle, the city carried on.
For reasons neither fully understood yet, neither left. Years later, both would remember that evening, not because anything remarkable had happened. There had been no confession, no dramatic revelation, no grand declaration. There was only rain, a piano, and a crowded hall, with two girls standing quietly in a doorway while the city glowed beyond the glass.
Yet sometimes, the most important moments in a person’s life arrive without announcing themselves. They wear ordinary clothes, they smell faintly of wet stone and candle wax, and they begin with nothing more than a shared silence. Neither person realizes that everything afterward will be measured against it.