Melody Whisperwind's Arc

Chapter 1 of 3

Melody walked until her legs shook. The dark harp drifted behind her, plucking itself, spilling sorrow into the trees. She did not cry. She never did. Somewhere ahead, she hoped, was the shape of one gentle night she could not quite remember. If she could find it again, the harp might learn comfort instead of grief. She passed a tall mansion with warm windows humming softly through the grove. She stopped. She stared. Something tugged at her chest, then slipped away. She thought she had slept there once, on the night the music turned kind. But the memory was smoke. She could not hold the shape of the room, the chair, the blanket, or her own face inside it. The harp played on. Pale notes drifted from its strings like thin smoke, curling into the air. A small black kitten crept from the hedges, a tiny bell-tag swinging at its throat. It sat in the grass and watched her. It did not cry. That was new. That was something. Melody knelt to listen harder. She tried to match the music to the memory. She closed her eyes and reached for that gentle night. Nothing came. Only the shape of being tired. Only the ache of not knowing who she had been before. She pushed on past the mansion until her knees buckled. She sank against a worn stone half-swallowed by grass. Her own name was carved into it, soft letters wreathed in tiny notes. She pressed her cheek to the cold stone and laughed once, dry and tired. Of course. Of course the only marker of her old self was a grave. The harp slowed. The notes thinned. Melody understood, finally, with a calm that felt like falling. She could not remember the gentle night because there was no self left to remember it. The chase was over. To find comfort in the music, she would not be recreating that night. She would have to build a new one, from here, with nothing behind her. The kitten padded closer and curled against her boot.