The doorbell rang, its chimes bright and startling in the quiet house.

I jumped slightly, my hand flying to my chest.

“Who is that?” Rachel asked, frowning.

“I don’t know,” I said, rising from the chair.

My knees felt stiff as I walked down the hallway.

I opened the front door, expecting to see David back with more demands.

Instead, Harold stood on the porch.

He was wearing his brown tweed flat cap and his heavy winter coat, his hands tucked into his pockets.

A small, leather-bound music folder was tucked under his arm.

“Hello, Eleanor,” he said, his voice warm and gentle.

“I hope I’m not interrupting.”

“We were supposed to look over those piano pieces today, remember?”

I had completely forgotten.

The dance lessons, the music, the quiet moments of joy I had found with him over the last few weeks—they had all been pushed aside by the storm in my kitchen.

“Harold,” I said, my voice shaking slightly.

He looked at my face, his smile fading into a look of concern.

“Is everything all right?” he asked.

“You look pale.”