Letters for Melody

This story was submitted for round #2 of NYC Midnight's Short Story Challenge 2024

The story prompt was Fantasy / Reminiscence / A pianist / 2,000 words or less. Enjoy!

My Dearest Melody,

No one warned me how quiet grief is. When your soul passed beyond the veil, I expected the whole world to feel it and mourn the loss of your kindness and gentleness. I want temples to crumble to the ground. I want the dragons that sleep by the Emerald Sea to roar in anguish so that everyone can feel the depth of my pain. I want to scream and claw through the earth to save your body from the worms that will devour your flesh.

Instead, I visit your grave in silence, for I no longer have the energy to weep. I planted white gardenias, your favorite, around your tombstone, but they’re starting to wilt without your touch. Neighbors still say, “Good morning, Brio,” across our fence while I try and fail to tend to your vegetable garden. I manage to nod my head, though I fail to feel anything except a hollow ache in my chest. The dragons continue to slumber peacefully along the coast, unaware of the cosmic shift left in your absence. I try to memorialize you through song, but every time I sit in front of the piano you bought me as a wedding gift, my fingers feel like lead.

Yesterday, I went to our little hill by the sea, the same one where we had our first date, where I buried you seven days ago. I wonder if, beyond the veil, your soul remembers that day fifteen years ago. I still recall how we sat on the tartan blanket your mother wove and watched the dragons crawl into the sea caves to lay their eggs, the steam from their breath rising, cocooning us from the rest of the world. But already, I fail to remember the shape of your smile. My ears can no longer recall the sound of your laughter as the wind tickled your face. Did your hair gleam red or gold under the sunlight? My memories of you are even hazier than a dragon’s breath. I reach for you in my mind, but it feels like trying to hold smoke in my hand.

Only now do I realize the gravity of the bargain I made, the depth of my mistake. 

When I confess the depravity of my sin, I hope you’ll still find it in your heart to love me. Sixteen years ago, I was an arrogant young man, broke and desperate. I played the piano on a beer-soaked bench in a dim tavern. My only compensation was a few coins and a stale piece of bread. Above all else, I craved applause and adoration from the crowd but was only met by apathetic claps or drunken jeers. I thought I deserved better, that the universe owed me a stroke of good luck. 

On a dreary winter night, I was drowning my disappointment in a bottle in the darkest corner of the tavern, commiserating with the barkeep. “I’d give my right pinky for a chance to play in the king’s court–the only place in this lousy kingdom that appreciates good music–but look at me: no title, no fancy clothes, no prospects. I deserve better than this.” I scoffed at the peeling wallpaper and stained wood and hastily added, “No offense,” at the barkeep’s raised brow. 

“Maybe you don’t have to give a pinky,” he said while rubbing a dirty glass with an even dirtier rag.

“What then?”

“Remember old man Richards?”

I narrowed my eyes, “The geezer who was always raving about going to Mahgreb to buy a flying carpet?”

“The very same. He said there was a Mage in the Red Forest who could grant wishes. No one has seen him in months; maybe he really did get his wish.”

For the first time in years, I sat up straighter.

“Don’t look so hopeful,” he warned, “only a fool goes asking for a wish with nothing to barter but his soul.”

It was true. I had nothing to offer this Mage, but I didn’t care much for my soul, so I set out that night, wandering through the knarled trees until, like a mirage, it appeared in a moon-lit clearing–a small stone cottage with a thatched roof. My knuckles had barely scratched the door when it opened, and there he was–the Mage. His face was etched deep with wrinkles, but his short, dark hair and bright eyes gave him a deceivingly young appearance. I stuttered for the right words, for a way to explain why I was on his doorstep unannounced in the middle of the night. “Come in, Brio,” he said with a sweep of his arm to welcome me inside. I didn’t question how he already knew my name. Over tea and a crackling fire, I confided in him my deepest desires. 

Melody, he did not want my pinky or my soul. He wanted something more valuable, and I’m ashamed to say I gave it away without hesitation. 

“Everything has a price. What are you willing to give?” he asked softly with unnervingly keen eyes. 

I pulled two copper coins from my pocket and set them on the table. “This is all I have,” I sighed. 

“Does it look like I desire money?” The one-room cottage was simple, nothing but the small table we sat at and a cot tucked into the corner. 

“What then?” I asked, ready to give up anything if it meant I never had to play my music in obscurity again.

He pulled a small chest from the cupboard and set it on the table. Inside were dozens of small glass vials, each filled with a strange milky substance. 

“They’re memories,” he stated as if we were discussing his favorite tea. “You see, I consider myself quite the collector, and that is what I require in return for granting your wish.”

“My memories?” I stammered. This whole venture would be for naught if he took my recollection of how to play the piano.

“Don’t worry.” His voice was soothing, but his gaze raked over me like a dragon’s talons. “In exchange for the future you desire, I simply ask for a piece of your past—remembrances of dead loved ones. Once I take them, they’ll slip from your mind like sand through an hourglass.”

I nearly sank to the floor in relief; I had no family, no memory of my long-dead parents who passed when I was still a baby. I had everything to gain and nothing to lose. 

“Deal.” He produced another vial, and with a chant of a few strange words, our bargain was complete. My vial remained empty, but the Mage smiled as he wished me a good night.

His magic worked quickly. I received an invitation from His Royal Highness King Canto to be the master pianist for his court despite never having heard me play. His court welcomed me like an old friend, even though not a day before, they would have looked at me like a bug stuck to their shoe. I had an orchestra at my command to construct the most exquisite concertos, and I felt powerful for the first time in my life. My music had the ability to make people smile and cry, to persuade strangers to sway across the floor in each other's arms. 

If only my music were strong enough to reawaken your soul, I would play over your grave until my fingers bled. 

When I met you at the King’s birthday ball, I never believed you would give me a second glance if you knew who I really was and what I had done. Melody, this is no judgment of your character but a condemnation of my cowardice. I had the privilege of watching you hand flowers to children on the spring equinox and cook dinner for Mrs. Hadley when she was too sick to do it herself. You taught me a whole new kind of magic, one that was pure and unconditional. You gave me a gift that did not require any bargain. I was too proud to admit that you married a fraud, too selfish to share the truth with you. 

In my defense, if one could be found, we were happy, and I never imagined I would outlive you. You were supposed to grow old, spend your days tending the garden, and chase sprites away from the turnips. When you got sick, I thought my fortune could save you. Surely, I thought, there would be a healer or a potion I could buy to save you. Again, my arrogance was my undoing because death acted swiftly and did not discriminate. 

I know your body will never return, that no bargain will grant me one more night with you. But I understand what I must do to get you back.

Yours,

Brio

***

Dearest Melody,

Today, as the sun rose, I trudged through the Red Forest. There was no path to follow, and the trees seemed to twist my every step. The sun hid behind the thick canopy, casting long shadows that turned into tall, wrinkle-ridden Mages everywhere I looked. After hours of wandering, sweat blurred my vision, and I sank to my knees.

“Come out and face me, you wretch!” I tried to rub the burning in my eyes away with mud-caked hands. When my vision cleared, the cabin was before me. Its chimney merrily puffed smoke in mockery of my despair.

I rushed through the door, not lingering for an invitation. The Mage was waiting for me, a small vial–my vial–sitting on the table, but now it was packed to the brim, bright white with my memories. 

“Give them back.” I was so out of breath I wasn’t sure he heard me. He kept his head lowered, watching my reminiscence of you stir against the glass.

“Why should I?”

“You tricked me, I never would have–”

“You knew the price and paid it willingly, enthusiastically, even if my memory serves me,” he smirked while tapping his temple. I dropped to the floor and hung my head.

“It was all a mistake. I wish I could take it back,” I whispered to myself. 

“Everything has a price, Brio. What will you give me this time?”

“My fame. Take it. I don’t want it anymore, not without her.”

He shook his head with pity. “Leave the past where it belongs. It doesn’t serve your future.”

My hands shook, and heat flushed my cheeks, “Melody is my future.” 

A small clock on the mantel tick, tick, ticked as he surveyed me. I debated leaping for the vial and dashing back into the forest when he stood and handed me the vial. I tore the cap and recited the words we chanted sixteen years ago. 

I made my way back through the village like a ghost. No one acknowledged my existence, but I never felt more alive. I smiled as the king’s guards turned me away from the castle, saying they had never heard of me. I practically skipped back to that beer-soaked tavern, taking up my old seat at the worn-down piano, and closed my eyes as my fingers moved over the keys. At last, I could see you clearly again.

I could see your lopsided grin and the freckles that smattered your nose. I could see your strawberry-blond hair falling from a messy bun. Your scent, gardenia, and vanilla, filled the air, and as my notes reached a crescendo, your laughter drowned out the world. 

You’re gone, but with my music and the magic of our love, I’ll mold your memory into the shape of my pocket and carry you with me everywhere I go. My past, my present, my future. 

Forever Yours,

Brio