It felt like music.

Mill Grove, London

POV Oliver

The small sitting room had been decorated for the occasion. Garlands hung along the walls, a few balloons had gathered in the corners of the room by now, and the table was covered with plates, glasses, and several presents Oliver had already opened.

Margaret was gathering up the crumpled wrapping paper while Helen placed the last few cups on the table. Bea sat beside Oliver, examining one of his presents as though she hadn't quite decided yet whether it actually belonged to her.

Oliver silently took it out of her hands.

Beatrice looked at him indignantly.

He only grinned and placed it with the others.

Then Margaret came in carrying the cake.

Oliver shifted forward in his chair as she carefully placed it on the table in front of him. Bea clapped her hands excitedly, Helen began to sing, and Margaret joined in shortly afterwards.

Oliver waited patiently until they were finished.

Then he leaned forward and looked at the small flames flickering on the cake in front of him.

Seven candles.

He took a deep breath and blew them all out in one go.

Almost three years.

That was how long it had been since he'd first opened his eyes in this world.

***

12.05.1997 – HMP, London

POV Peter

The heavy door slammed shut behind the guard.

Peter only briefly looked up from the book resting on his knees as the man the guard had brought into his cell placed his bag on the empty bed.

"David," the newcomer introduced himself and held out his hand.

Peter regarded it for a moment. "Peter," he said curtly, making no attempt to take the offered hand.

David slowly lowered it again. "Nice to meet you too."

Peter turned his attention back to his book.

For a few minutes, the cell remained quiet. David began unpacking his few belongings and arranging them in the small space around his bed. Peter paid him no further attention.

"Have you been here for long?"

Peter turned a page.

"Yes."

David looked at him as though he were beginning to wonder whether every answer this man gave consisted of a single word. Eventually, he gave up and went back to his things.

That was when his gaze fell on the wall above Peter's bed.

Among the few personal belongings hung a newspaper clipping. The paper had already yellowed slightly around the edges and was fixed to the wall with tape.

David stepped closer and studied the picture.

"Your son?"

Peter didn't answer immediately. His gaze shifted from his book to the newspaper clipping.

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"No."

David nodded slowly.

A few more seconds passed.

"Can you actually say more than one word?" he finally asked. He seemed to be running out of patience with his new cellmate.

Peter closed his book, placed it on the small cabinet beside his bed, and stood up. He crossed the short distance to David and stopped directly in front of him.

"The boy whose parents I killed," he said quietly, looking him straight in the eyes.

David's eyes widened. He instinctively took a step back and looked first at Peter, then at the newspaper clipping, and finally back at Peter.

"Madman," he muttered, suddenly seeming determined to draw as little attention to himself as possible.

Peter left him standing there and sat back down on his bed.

He was guilty. There was no point pretending otherwise. Two people were dead because of him, and he would have to live with that knowledge for the rest of his life.

But he wasn't like some of the men in here. That was something he'd learned painfully over the past two years. His new cellmate would have to learn it too.

David was lucky that Peter was the one he'd offered his hand to. Other men behind these walls weren't looking for forgiveness or a second chance.

Peter looked back at the newspaper clipping.

He no longer needed to read it. By now, he knew every single word by heart.

In the photograph, a little boy sat at a piano.

SIX-YEAR-OLD PRODIGY CAPTIVATES LONDON CHURCHGOERS

Oliver Bennett.

Six years old.

Piano. Church choir. An extraordinary musical talent, as the article had called him.

Peter still remembered the day he'd first held the clipping in his hands. For a long time, he'd simply stared at the photograph.

The boy was alive.

More than that: He had a life.

It changed nothing about what Peter had done. It didn't bring Oliver's parents back. It didn't make the images of that day any less real or the nightmares any less terrible.

But on some nights, when Peter woke drenched in sweat, his eyes would drift to that photograph.

To the boy at the piano.

And sometimes it helped.

Not with the guilt. Not with the memories.

But at least then he knew that not everything had ended that day.

Peter looked at the article one more time.

Eight more years.

He had promised.

***

12.05.1997 Mill Grove | London

POV Oliver

Once the cake had been eaten, Beatrice had promptly dragged Oliver into the music room. Now he sat at the piano while she stood expectantly beside him.

Oliver was already rolling his eyes.

"Please," Beatrice silently pleaded with Oliver. "One last time!"

Oliver let out a breath and wondered when exactly the birthday boy had become the one granting everyone else's wishes.

"This is the last time today!" he said firmly, making sure she had understood him.

Beatrice nodded contentedly and sat down beside him. One hand was already resting on the keys.

Oliver got ready as well and wondered how many times she'd made him sing this one particular song since she'd first been able to hear his voice.

At first, he'd thought it was rather sweet.

By now, it was simply annoying having to play the same song over and over again – especially one like this.

Oliver placed his hands on the keys and glanced at Beatrice.

"One – two – three."

Slowly, almost cautiously, the familiar melody began to take shape. A few bright notes, a brief pause, then it repeated and climbed a little higher. In the quiet music room, the simple children's song somehow sounded fuller than it really was.

Beatrice concentrated on playing her notes beside him while Oliver handled the rest. She was a little hesitant at first, but within a few bars, their hands found the same rhythm.

Oliver couldn't help but smile.

As much as the song got on his nerves by now – moments like this were exactly why he was learning to play in the first place.

They were no longer just individual notes escaping from the piano.

It felt like music.

***

POV Beatrice

She knew the rhythm, knew which key came next, and could still feel the faint vibration of every note beneath her fingers.

But that wasn't all anymore.

There was sound.

Her finger pressed down on the next key, and the note was there.

Bright and clear.

A moment later, she heard his voice.

♫♪♬

Twinkle, twinkle, little star,

How I wonder what you are!

Up above the world so high,

Like a diamond in the sky.

♫♪♬

And suddenly, they weren't two separate sounds anymore.

They belonged together.

♫♪♬

When the blazing sun is gone,

When he nothing shines upon,

Then you show your little light,

Twinkle, twinkle, all the night.

♫♪♬

Beatrice smiled.

Her fingers lifted from the keys. She closed her eyes and simply listened.

♫♪♬

Then the traveller in the dark

Thanks you for your tiny spark;

He could not see which way to go,

If you did not twinkle so.

♫♪♬

It wasn't just his voice. Not just the sound of the piano.

It was a feeling.

♫♪♬

In the dark blue sky you keep,

And often through my curtains peep,

For you never shut your eye,

Till the sun is in the sky.

♫♪♬

Beatrice kept her eyes closed.

It felt like music.