She doesn’t hesitate when she confronts, at last, the airport; her boarding pass nearly slips

between the jetway and the plane, but she snatches the paper as she would her sheet music,

frantically, and stumbles through the narrow aisle for her middle seat.

If you stopped wasting cash on overpriced coffee, you could see off home, Andy.

True, she’d love the window all to herself, wake to the London skyline, but she’s just fine

sleeping through her first climb into the sky. Fauré’s mélodies lull her into something almost

restful, but her stomach churns when the attendant nudges her—“Seat up, please, we’re landing.”

Her breath is heavy but steady as she shoulders two bursting duffels and a one-wheeled

suitcase onto the Tube, and though the silence of her phone is unsettling, she leaves airplane

mode on a little longer. He probably texted her while she was flying, eager for the last word.

Maybe for once, it’ll be hers.

The smooth, hard lines of her flute case dig into the flesh of her thighs when she pushes

through rush hour.

Don’t be careless with your instrument, Andy. That’ s your livelihood.

A pizzicato of rain kisses her almost-smile when she climbs out of Kings Cross, a clock

encased by redbrick boasting a new time zone. Men with suits shove past, scowling at her stupor,

so she hauls her life’s belongings and herself out of the way. When she laughs, it tastes sour, and

she has to clamp her lips together to keep from puking.

Andy, you’ve never even left the country. You hate big cities. Why on earth would you go

to London without me?

His words land hard in the chaos of the intersection—double-decker red, hackney

carriages, and blurs of motorbikes—but when her earbuds return to Fauré, those reasons to

second guess ripple into soft triplets. The sky moans in displeasure when she finds her flat,

equipped with a mattress more springy than soft and an absent landlord. She braves the

downpour regardless, itching for a bite of something British, but really, a glance at her future.

Not even he could question this—she thinks as she stands before the conservatory’s

arching doors, a blue historical plaque gleaming with pride and rain.

No one plays like you.

She catches a few raindrops on her tongue, then takes shelter beneath her umbrella in

search of fish and chips. It feels good, skipping over puddles and window shopping a medieval,

modern metropolis, everyone determined to keep moving no matter what. She wants to keep

moving too. She needs to move forward, and she will, she’s certain. She’s here, after all.

The city’ s indifference will wear on you, trust me, Andy, you should stay. Please, stay.

She pulls out her phone to replay Après un rêve, determined to wash his words away like

the rain does the grime of a red-eye. But after an engine sputters behind her, a black glove

snatches the phone from her grip. She stumbles after the motorbike careening off the sidewalk

and into the evening traffic.

Fauré plays even after she’s lost sight of it, of that last tether to home—to him. Then the

music cuts out, leaving her stranded in London.

And Anya grins.