CHAPTER 25: Where Forgiveness Begins
Eli sat on the edge of the piano bench, unmoving, his fingers resting on the worn keys like he didn't know what they were anymore.
He had played a thousand songs here—songs for healing, songs for Ava—but now all he heard was the thud of his heart, heavy with memories he never asked to relive.
Across the center, Ava sat curled in the stairwell's shadows, the letter still clutched in her hands. Her cheeks were stained with dried tears, her lips pressed together like they might fall apart if she spoke.
They were just a hallway apart.
But it felt like an ocean.
She didn't know how to fix it. Maybe there was no fixing something like this. Maybe love wasn't enough when the past refused to stay buried.
And yet...
She stood.
Not because she had the right words.
Not because she thought she could undo the fire.
But because he deserved more than silence.
Eli didn't turn as she entered the room, but he felt her presence—like a shift in the wind, like warmth at his back after a long winter.
"I read it," she said softly.
His jaw clenched, but he didn't move.
"That letter you wrote. The one you never sent."
Still nothing.
"I think," she whispered, "you wrote it for me even before you knew who I was."
His hands trembled slightly on the keys. "Don't," he said. "Don't try to make this poetic."
"I'm not," she replied. "I'm trying to make it honest."
A pause.
Then: "You were the girl," he murmured. "Weren't you?"
She nodded, then remembered he couldn't see it. "Yes."
A long breath escaped him—part pain, part release.
Ava stepped closer. "I remembered too late. But that doesn't mean I don't care. It doesn't mean I didn't love you before the truth."
He finally turned his face toward her, though his eyes stared into nothing. "So what now?" he asked. "Do we pretend none of it happened?"
"No," she said, voice steady. "We remember. Together."
He shook his head. "It's not that simple."
"I know," she replied. "But nothing worth healing ever is."
She reached for his hand. At first, he didn't take it. But then, slowly, his fingers curled around hers—uncertain, trembling, but there.
"I'm not asking you to forgive me now," she said. "I just… want to walk beside you. Even if all we do is sit in the dark together."
He didn't speak.
But he didn't let go.
And in that silence, something shifted.
Not the past.
But maybe, just maybe...
The future.