Notes in the Moonlight
He didn’t mean to spy. Honestly.
He’d just been out late after practice, broom in hand, hair still wet from the shower, when he saw her slip out the side doors — violin case in hand.
He followed at a distance, half out of curiosity, half because… something about her drew him in like gravity.
She sat by the Black Lake. Opened the case. And played.
James sat behind a boulder and watched her silhouette dance in the moonlight, her hair catching silver like it was born from starlight. The violin cried and whispered in her hands — like it was telling stories only she could speak.
She was magic.
Not the kind you learn. Not the kind with wands and incantations.
The kind you feel.
That night, James didn’t sleep.
And the next night — and the one after — he returned. Always silent. Always hidden.
Because it wasn’t just her music. It was her presence. The way the night folded around her. The way the lake seemed to still when she played.
One night, she whispered to the water, “I miss my old sky.”
James didn't know what that meant.
But he wanted to.