Page 31 of All the Things We Buried

Für Elise.

The sound was fragile, threading through the walls, curling into the silence around, making me freeze. The first tear slipped free without warning, tracing down my cheek. Then another.

He’s playing. He’s speaking. In the only way he can.

Becauseneitherof us knew how to speak what we felt.

Why is it so hard to communicate? Why is it so hard tojust say it?

But maybe…Maybe it was easier this way. Maybe he didn’t want ghosts to know that he felt the same. Maybe he thought that if they knew, they would ruin it for us. The same way people do when they know.

Maybe he wasn’t cold. Maybe he was terrified of being seen. So he played his feelings through songs and prayed I wouldn’t stop listening.

And I never would.

I got up and leaned against the doorframe. I pressed a hand to my mouth, and I listened. Every note. Every breath between keys. I listened to Für Elise, I listened to his feelings, because we were both too proud, too scared, to speak.

TEN

LENORE

16 YEARS OLD

The light was still on. I heard the soft crackle of firewood burning. I stepped silently down the stairs, creeping in slowly when I saw him.

Dorian was lying in front of the fireplace on a dark blue blanket, his back to me. His back was covered in scars, burns, cuts, words carved into his skin:bastard,brat.

I slapped a hand over my mouth to stop the sob that tried to rise. I never asked him who did that, or what happened, or if he was like me, begging for pain instead of silence.

I moved closer, my hand brushing against the sofa, breath caught in my throat.

I heard him growl, “It’s not polite to stare.”

“Do I have a choice?” I said, kneeling in front of him.

He turned toward me, his eyes dark, his skin smudged with ash. Even then, covered in pain and ash, he was still beautiful.

He was drinking. The glass was still half full. The firelight shimmered in the whiskey.

He sat up, looking at me. “See anything you like,sister?”

I scanned him from top to bottom. His arms were tattooed with meaningless tattoos, but somehow, they told a story. A full sleeve, reaching up to a snake that coiled around his neck, its tongue flicking at his collarbone like it was alive.

I swallowed hard, dragging my eyes back up to meet his.

“No,” I said, clearing my throat. “And I’m not your sister.”

He rolled his eyes, a low chuckle rumbling from his throat. “Step-sister,” he said, lifting a brow, his smirk turning cold.

His gaze dropped to the edge of my pajama, the same one he took out from the closet for me.I turned to leave, not trusting myself to speak. But I barely shifted when his voice snapped behind me.

“Sit down.”

I tilted my head. “Why would I?”

I stepped closer, turning fully to face him.

“We can play a game,” he said.