Day 3: Claire (The Practice Room)

Rebekah texts you the location midmorning: Rehearsal room B, basement of the music building. She's there most afternoons. Doesn't know she's being watched yet. Eyes open.

You hesitate at the door. You can hear faint piano behind it — arpeggios, delicate and probing. No audience. Just her. You raise your hand, knock once.

The music halts. Silence, then a wary voice.

“Yes?”

You crack the door open and lean in. Claire is seated at the Steinway upright, backlit by dusty afternoon sun through the small ground-level windows. She looks… ordinary. No stage lights, no gown, just her in a charcoal hoodie and sweatpants, hair loose for once.

She frowns. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“I know.” You step inside and close the door gently behind you. “But I heard you play.”

She watches you without moving. Her fingers rest lightly on the keys, but they don’t play.

“A lot of people heard me play.”

“Not like that,” you say, moving towards her slowly, like a predator waiting to leap. “Not what I heard.”

Her face shifts — subtle, but there. A wariness laced with the faintest tremor of recognition. She’s nervous, unsure.

“Who are you?” she asks.

She’s testing, looking for control. You don’t grant more than she already has. With another step you speak. “You don’t need to know that. This isn’t about me.”

She rises slowly, stepping back from the bench. She faces you as you approach, fear on her face. Fear, but something else. Excitement? Anticipation? Her breath catches and her next question betrays her.

“You think it was some kind of orgasm?”

“No,” you answer. Then, quieter: “I know it was.”

She exhales through her nose, sharp and defensive. Her arms fold. She leans back against the practice room’s thin wall like it might give her support she doesn’t want to ask for.

“It was music.” The words come hard. “It’s always been music.”

You nod again. Then let the silence stretch, just long enough. You’re close now. And she’s caught. She had a chance to escape, but she chose not to take it. You don’t reach for her. Even now she could step around you… and she remains.

“Then why deny it?” Your words are soft, menacing, inescapable. “If it wasn’t carnal… you wouldn’t have needed to say it wasn’t.”

That hits her like a body blow. Her breath catches. Her eyes widen. She turns away as if to gather her thoughts, but it’s too late — her stillness speaks louder than her playing ever did. You still don’t touch her. Your position only says she has to hold the truth. It is here, in her face and unavoidable.

That’s when it happens. The strangest thing. The confirmation Rebekah was right. She relaxes. Just a notch, but it’s there. Her arms are still folded, but not as tense. She’s trapped into her own truth and part of her wants to be.

“Why are you here?” she asks.

“Because I saw something real.” You pause, then add: “And I want to help you show it.”

She gives you a long look. You can see the gears turning behind her eyes — distrust, curiosity, a flicker of that same intensity from the recital night. But she doesn’t argue. She steps around you and sits back on the piano bench. She’s accepted she’s been caught, you can see it. This time when she places her fingers on the keys, she doesn’t press them. Just rests.

“You tell anyone?”

“The only other person who knows… told me.”

She nods, very slowly. Her gaze doesn’t meet yours. For a long moment she just stares at you. Eventually nods.

“I need time,” she says. “Come back tomorrow. Same time. I need to think.”

You raise your eyebrows.

“We’ll talk then. Maybe… I’ll play for you.”

“Deal.”

She presses a single note. Lets it ring like the exit bell of a lecture. You turn to go. As you reach the door, she says, almost too quietly to hear:

“It is music. But sometimes… I think that’s just what I call it so I don’t have to call it me.”

You don’t answer. The door closes behind you, soft as a held breath.