Chapter 3 - THE BOY WHO HEARD TOO MUCH
Leo liked patterns.
He liked the order of rain against windows, the rhythm of train wheels, and the particular way a piano key felt when pressed slowly.
He disliked unpredictable noise.
Especially sudden applause.
He also had an extraordinary memory for sound.
I discovered that during our third session.
I played four notes.
He repeated them perfectly.
I added two more.
He repeated those too.
Then he said, “The fourth note was wrong.”
I laughed.
“You're right.”
He frowned.
“Why are you laughing?”
“Because you're a better listener than I am.”
He considered that.
“I'm good at listening.”
“Yes, you are.”
“People say I don't listen.”
I stopped smiling.
“Sometimes people confuse listening with looking at them.”
He glanced at the keys.
“I hear everything.”
I believed him.
Over the following weeks, Leo and I developed a routine.
First, we checked the room.
Lights comfortable?
Door open or closed?
Headphones nearby?
Then he chose whether to play.
Sometimes he wanted music.
Sometimes he wanted silence.
Sometimes he wanted me to describe the colors of imaginary songs.
One afternoon, he played a strange little melody.
Five notes.
A pause.
Three notes.
Then two low notes.
I listened.
“Did you write that?”
He shook his head.
“It's the angry song.”
“Where did you hear it?”
He stopped playing.
His shoulders rose.
I didn't press.
“It's okay not to tell me.”
He looked toward the door.
“Aunt Isabella plays it.”
I frowned.
“On the piano?”
“No.”
“Where?”
He pressed the lowest key.
“In the little room.”
Before I could ask more, the door opened.
A woman stood there wearing a cream silk blouse.
Dark hair.
Perfect makeup.
Cold eyes.
“Leo,” she said.
He immediately stopped playing.
I recognized her.
Isabella Moretti.
Dante's late wife's sister.
“Your father wants you upstairs,” she said.
Leo looked at me.
“Do I have to?”
Isabella smiled.
“Don't be difficult.”
I stood.
“Leo asked a question.”
Her gaze shifted to me.
“Excuse me?”
“He asked whether he has to leave.”
Isabella's smile disappeared.
“This is a family matter.”
“Then perhaps someone can explain the plan to him.”
She stepped closer.
“You're the piano teacher.”
“Yes.”
“Then teach piano.”
Leo covered one ear.
I lowered my voice.
“Let's keep this calm.”
Isabella looked offended.
“Are you instructing me?”
“No. I'm asking everyone to make the room easier for Leo.”
She stared at me.
Then turned.
“Fine. I'll tell Dante you're being uncooperative.”
After she left, Leo whispered, “She doesn't like you.”
“I noticed.”
He pressed one key.
“Because you stop things.”
I sat beside him.
“Sometimes stopping is the right thing.”
He nodded.
Then whispered something that made my skin prickle.
“Mommy stopped things too.”
I turned carefully.
“Your mom?”
Leo stared at the keys.
“She said no.”
“To what?”
He shook his head.
I waited.
Then he whispered:
“The angry song.”
May you like
And I realized the melody might not be music at all.
It might be a memory.
