Freya’s eyes fluttered open mid-melody, her gaze meeting Myra’s across the room. A soft, hopeful smile touched her lips, a silent question in her crimson eyes, asking if the music was offering any soce to Myra’s troubled heart. The gentle strains of the harp continued to fill the antique shop, a soothing balm against the quiet sorrow Freya had sensed in Myra earlier.

  But as her fingers continued to pluck the strings, a familiar warmth began to bloom in Freya’s chest, a ghost of a feeling she hadn’t experienced in centuries. The soft vibrations of the harp beneath her fingertips seemed to pull her back through the veils of time, tugging at long-forgotten memories.

  Suddenly, the dusty antiques around her seemed to fade, repced by the opulent yet cozy living room of her childhood home. She could almost see the warm glow of the hearth, the rich tapestries adorning the walls, the familiar scent of beeswax and old wood filling the air. And there, seated on a plush velvet chaise lounge, her mother watched her with a fond smile, her father standing proudly by the firepce.

  Her younger self, small and earnest, sat before a simir, though perhaps newer, harp, her small fingers fumbling yet determined as she pyed a simple tune. She could almost hear her mother’s gentle praise, the warmth in her voice as she encouraged young Freya’s musical endeavors. “That was lovely, my dear,” her mother’s phantom voice echoed in her mind. “Your fingers dance across the strings just like little birds.”

  The memory was vivid, a poignant reminder of a life lived and loved, of a family lost to the relentless march of time. A bittersweet ache settled in Freya’s chest, the joy of the memory tinged with the sharp pang of loss. She continued to py, the melody now carrying a hint of mencholy, an echo of the centuries of sorrow she had carried.

  But then, a different voice broke through the nostalgic haze, a voice soft and ced with a gentle concern. “Freya?” Myra’s voice, clear and present, cut through the echoes of the past, gently pulling her back to the reality of the antique shop, to the woman who sat watching her with such rapt admiration. The spell of memory began to recede, the faces of her long-lost family fading into the shadows as Myra’s loving gaze brought her back to the present moment, a poignant reminder of the new connection she had found in this unexpected chapter of her timeless existence.

  Myra, her heart touched by the raw emotion in the melody and the ethereal beauty of Freya pying the harp, noticed the sudden stillness. The music abruptly ceased mid-note, the silence that followed feeling thick with unspoken feeling. Her brow furrowed with concern as she watched Freya, whose eyes were now open, their crimson depths shimmering with unshed tears. A single tear escaped, tracing a slow, glistening path down her pale cheek.

  “Freya?” Myra asked softly, her voice filled with genuine worry. She rose from the cushion and moved towards the vampire, her steps hesitant but filled with a deep empathy. “Are you alright? You… you stopped pying, and…” Her voice trailed off as she gently reached out, her hand hovering just above Freya’s arm, unsure whether to touch her. The sight of Freya, so strong and composed, dispying such raw emotion, tugged at Myra’s heart.

  Freya blinked, her gaze unfocused for a moment as the lingering echoes of the past receded. She became aware of Myra’s concerned voice and the gentle presence drawing closer. She quickly brushed the single tear away with the back of her hand.

  “Forgive me, Myra,” she said, her voice a little husky. She offered a small, somewhat shaky smile. “I… I was lost in the music for a moment. A memory… from a very long time ago… surfaced unexpectedly.” She hesitated, unsure how much to reveal. “It was… a bittersweet memory.”

  She looked back at the harp, her fingers resting lightly on the strings. “The music… it has a way of doing that, doesn’t it? Of unlocking forgotten feelings.” She sighed softly, a hint of mencholy still lingering in her eyes. “But I am alright, my dear. Truly. Just a momentary… dip into the past.” She tried to sound reassuring, not wanting to burden Myra with her ancient sorrows, especially when Myra herself seemed troubled.

  A wave of gentle remorse washed over Freya as she registered the concern etched on Myra’s face. She had intended the music to be a source of comfort, a brief respite from whatever worries weighed upon Myra’s heart. The realization that she had instead allowed her own emotions to intrude made her feel a pang of regret.

  “Oh, Myra,” she said softly, her crimson eyes filled with genuine apology. “I am so sorry. That was… incredibly insensitive of me. I had hoped the music would soothe your spirits, and instead, I allowed my own memories to… overwhelm me. Please forgive me. That was not my intention at all.”

  She reached out, gently taking Myra’s hand in hers, her cool touch a contrast to Myra’s warmth. “I got caught up in the echoes of the past, and I was thoughtless. Are you alright? Did my… sadness upset you?” Her concern was palpable, her focus shifting entirely to Myra’s well-being, regretting that she had momentarily turned the attention to her own emotions.

  Myra squeezed Freya’s hand reassuringly. “Oh, Freya, don’t be sorry,” she said softly, her eyes filled with understanding. “It’s okay. Really. You don’t always have to be strong. It’s natural to have memories, to feel things. It just means you’re… you’re human, in a way.”

  She offered a gentle smile. “And honestly,” Myra continued, “the music was beautiful. Even with the sadness… it was still beautiful. It made me feel… something, too. Like I could understand a little bit of what you might have been feeling.”

  She paused for a moment, then added, her voice thoughtful, “It’s okay to have those moments, Freya. You don’t have to hide them from me. It just makes me feel… closer to you, if that makes sense.” Myra’s response was filled with empathy, a genuine understanding that transcended their different natures, offering Freya comfort in her vulnerability.

  Moved by Myra’s understanding and gentle reassurance, Freya turned slightly, allowing Myra to come closer. She felt the soft touch of Myra’s hands as she carefully moved strands of her hair, gently sweeping them to the side. Then, the warmth of Myra’s embrace enveloped her from behind, a comforting weight against her back.

  Myra’s cheek pressed softly against the cool skin of Freya’s neck, her breath a gentle warmth against the sensitive area. The simple gesture was incredibly intimate, a silent offering of comfort and closeness. Freya leaned back slightly, allowing herself to be enveloped by Myra’s embrace, the familiar scent of vender and something uniquely Myra filling her senses.

  In that moment, the roles seemed to shift subtly. Myra, who had come seeking comfort, was now offering it in return, her gentle touch and quiet presence a soothing balm to Freya’s momentary sorrow. The antique shop, with its silent witnesses of ages past, held them in a tender embrace, the lingering echoes of music and emotion weaving a fragile tapestry of connection between the mortal woman and the ancient vampire.

  Myra closed her eyes, the gentle pressure of her cheek against Freya’s neck grounding her in the present moment. She could hear the soft, steady rhythm of her own breathing, a counterpoint to the stillness of Freya’s non-beating heart. Yet, in that stillness, Myra sensed a fragility she hadn’t fully acknowledged before. The centuries Freya had lived, the memories that could bring such sudden sadness, the very nature of her existence – it all felt delicate in its own way.

  Freya is so fragile, Myra thought, a wave of protectiveness washing over her. The realization came unexpectedly, a quiet understanding that beneath the ancient strength y a heart that had known immense loss and carried the weight of ages. How can I possibly burden her with my own troubles right now?

  The image of Gareth, his menacing presence and the unsettling questions he had posed, flickered in her mind. The anxiety she had pushed aside returned, a knot tightening in her stomach. Telling Freya about him felt like introducing a shadow into her already complex world, a potential danger that could shatter the delicate peace they had found.

  Then, the memory of her grandmother’s tear-streaked face surfaced, the hurt and disappointment in her eyes a fresh wound. Sharing that painful conversation with Freya felt equally daunting. How could she expin the deeply ingrained beliefs, the fear and sorrow that had met her heartfelt confession? It felt like adding another yer of complication to their already unconventional retionship, a potential source of conflict and misunderstanding.

  Both Gareth and Grandma… they feel like heavy stones, Myra thought, her brow furrowing slightly behind her closed eyelids. How can I y those stones at Freya’s feet when she seems so… tender right now? Perhaps I should wait. Protect this moment of closeness. Find a stronger time, for both of us, to share these burdens. The decision settled within her, a quiet act of consideration and a desire to shield Freya, for now, from the complexities that weighed on her own heart.