The clinking of glasses and the hum of murmured conversation slowly returned to the café, but around the small stage, time felt suspended. Dave settled back on his stool, cradling the sax like a relic.
"You two remind me of nights long gone," he said, his eyes faraway. "Back when London fog wrapped the streets, and music was the only fire we had to keep warm."
Michael leaned closer. "You knew her, didn't you? Before me." He glanced at Synvie, who stayed by the bar, sipping something dark and strong, her gaze steady but quiet.
Dave chuckled, low and rough, like a note too heavy to polish. "Knew her? Child, she used to sit right there in that corner."
He nodded toward a faded leather booth, its cushion worn thin.
"Wouldn't say a word, just listen. Little girl with a notebook bigger than her arms. She'd watch me play and scribble, scribble, scribble, like every note was scripture."
Synvie's lips curved faintly, but she didn't interrupt.
Michael's heart jolted. "You... you taught her?"
"Not with words," Dave said, shaking his head. "I ain't no preacher. I just played. But she caught the language quick. She understood sorrow. That's a gift and a curse."
His eyes shifted to Synvie, softer now.
"She made my silence sing louder than my horn ever could. I knew she'd outgrow these smoke-stained walls. I just prayed she wouldn't forget where the sound came from."
Synvie lowered her glass, her voice calm but edged with something raw. "I didn't forget, Dave. I came back. And I brought him." Her gaze flicked to Michael.
Michael felt the ground tilt beneath him. The three of them weren't just crossing paths. They were circling the same flame.
Dave's weathered hand rose again, this time not to Michael but to Synvie, as though blessing her from across the room. "Then maybe my job ain't done after all. Maybe it's just beginning again."
The café's band began to stir, tuning instruments for the next set, but Dave stayed still, his eyes locked on them both.
"You two think you're chasing keys and answers. But what you're really chasing—" he lifted the sax, tapping it gently "—is the song only you can write together."
Michael swallowed hard, glancing at Synvie. Her expression was unreadable, her poker face unshaken, but her eyes... those eyes burned like a verse she hadn't sung yet.
The key in his pocket felt heavier than ever.
He slipped his hand into the fabric, fingers brushing the iron's cold ridges.
For weeks it had mocked him, promising some mystery, some hidden door.
But now, in the glow of Dave's words and Synvie's silence, it no longer felt like a key to a lock. It felt like a question, waiting for his answer.
Synvie set down her glass and stood, the flicker of candlelight catching her cheek. "Come on," she said, voice steady but low. "This night isn't done yet."
Michael hesitated, torn between staying in the safety of the music and stepping into whatever storm Synvie was leading him toward.
Dave leaned forward, his gaze sharpening, voice rasping like gravel. "Don't stall, boy. Songs don't wait. Neither does truth."
Michael met Synvie's eyes. She gave nothing away—no hint of what door she was about to open, but her hand lingered, waiting for him to follow.
He rose.
And as they turned toward the café door, the band struck up a new tune, bright and careless, as if to remind them the world outside still moved.
But Michael knew: once he stepped back into Airwindale's veins with Synvie, nothing would be the same.
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