eight | 08.

A TRIED TRUCE.

    "These were my fathers." He murmured, the words muffled slightly by the mask.

    But instead of refusing to wear the clothes, he turned and retreated back into the bathroom without another word, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

    Daphne's eyebrows shot up in surprise, her shoulders relaxing slightly now that he was out of sight. She had half expected him to freak out on her.

    She moved back to the bed and sat down again, her fingers playing nervously with the edge of the quilt as she waited. The minutes dragged on, each one feeling longer than the last, as she wondered what was going through his mind behind that closed door.

    Finally, the door opened again, and Brahms emerged, now dressed in the clean clothes she had given him.

The dark slacks and sweater were a bit too tight for his muscular frame, but they suited him in a strange way.

Daphne stood, her eyes meeting his as she took in the sight of him. The transformation, though small, was significant. He looked...different. Not just because of the clothes, but because there was something in his posture, in the way he held himself, that was just a little less guarded.

"I suppose taking off the mask would be too much to ask?" She asked, trying to gauge his mood.

Brahms didn't answer immediately. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, a nervous habit she had noticed before, and then he finally looked back up at her.

"My face was burned in the fire." He said at last. "I don't want to scare you."

Daphne nodded back, her lips pursing. "That's alright. I understand."

Brahms moved slowly into the room, his eyes scanning the space as if seeing it for the first time.

She watched him carefully, trying to read the emotions behind the mask. It was progress—small, slow progress—and she didn't want to jeopardize it by pushing him too hard.

"Do you want to sit down?" She offered, gesturing to the bed beside her. "We could talk, or...just sit. Whatever you feel comfortable with."

Brahms hesitated again, his gaze flicking to the bed and then back to her. For a moment, she thought he might refuse, that he would retreat back into the safety of the walls. But then, to her surprise, he nodded and moved to sit down on the edge of the bed, his movements careful.

Daphne sat beside him, leaving a respectful distance between them.

The silence stretched out, heavy but not uncomfortable, as they both sat there, side by side, in the dim light of the room. She could hear the faint ticking of the old clock down the hall.

After a while, Brahms spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. "Why are you helping me?"

Daphne turned to look at him. She searched for the right words, the ones that would convey the truth of what she felt, but they didn't come easily.

"Because..." She began, then paused, choosing her words carefully. "Because I believe that everyone deserves a chance to find some kind of peace."

    His eyes drifted away from her, sweeping across the room as if searching for something to distract him from a conversation he couldn't find a response to.

    The silence stretched, filled only by the faint ticking of the distant clock, and for a moment, Daphne feared she had overstepped, that her words had been too assumptive, too soon.

    But just as she was about to speak again, to offer him a way out of the conversation, Brahms looked back at her, his eyes holding a flicker of something she couldn't quite name.

    "Do you know how to play the piano?" He asked.

    Daphne blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in topic. "No, I...I was never taught." She admitted, shaking her head slightly. "I've always wanted to learn, though."

    His eyes seemed to brighten at that, a subtle spark of interest that had Daphne's heart clenching, much to her dismay. For the first time since she'd met him, there was a hint of enthusiasm in his voice when he spoke again. It was electric.

    "I could teach you." He offered, clearly eager to offer her something in exchange for the clothes. "There's a piano...downstairs. I could show you."

    Daphne's surprise deepened. She hadn't been aware that there was even a piano in the mansion. It was another reminder of how little she truly knew about the house—and about him.

    There was something in the way he spoke, though, the way he perked up as he made the offer, that made her want to follow his lead.

    "I'd like that." She offered him a small. "I didn't know there was a piano here."

    Brahms nodded, a renewed energy suddenly animating his movements as he stood, gesturing for her to follow.

    Daphne rose from the bed, watching as he moved toward the door with a sense of purpose that was unlike anything she had seen from him before.

    She followed him down the hallway and then the stairs, her curiosity growing with each step. The mansion, which had always felt unfamiliar, now seemed to hold a new kind of mystery, one that Brahms was willing to share with her.

    He led her to a room on the first floor that she hadn't noticed before.

    The door was heavy, the wood dark and polished, and when he pushed it open, Daphne found herself stepping into a space that took her breath away.

    The room was large, with high ceilings and walls lined with bookshelves that stretched almost to the top. The books were old, their spines worn with age, but they gave the room a warmth that contrasted sharply with the cold, empty halls outside.

    And in the center of the room, bathed in the soft light from a nearby window, was a grand piano, its sleek black surface gleaming faintly.

    Daphne's eyes widened as she took in the sight. The piano was beautiful, its keys pristine and polished. She couldn't help but wonder how often Brahms had come here, how many hours he had spent at that piano, hidden away from the world.

    "This is...amazing." She puffed out in awe, stepping closer to the piano, her fingers itching to press her fingers upon the keys.

    Brahms watched her with a trained eye. "It was my mother's. She used to play for hours on end and eventually ended up teaching me if only to keep me distracted."

    Daphne looked at him, understanding dawning on her. He was inviting her into that small, sacred part of his world, offering to share a memory that had once brought him joy.

    "Will you show me?" She asked, her voice quiet, not wanting to disrupt the delicate balance of the moment.

    He nodded, moving to sit on the bench in front of the piano, leaving enough space for her to join him. Daphne slowly sat beside him, close enough to see the fine details of the piano's craftsmanship, to feel the smoothness of the keys beneath her fingers.

    Her shoulder brushed against his and her eyelashes fluttered at the contact.

    Brahms lifted his hands, his fingers hovering over the keys as if reacquainting himself with the instrument. There was a reverence in the way he moved, as though he were handling something fragile and precious.

    Then, with a quiet exhale, he began to play.

The first notes were delicate, cautious, but as his fingers found their rhythm, the music filled the room, wrapping around them like a comforting embrace.

Daphne watched in awe as Brahms played, the notes flowing from the piano with a grace and elegance that belied the rough man sitting beside her.

It was as if the music transformed him, bringing out a side of him that had been buried under layers of pain and anger.

When he finally stopped, the last note lingering in the air, Daphne felt a profound sense of connection, as if they had shared something intimate, something beyond words.

She turned to him, her expression soft, her voice filled with quiet wonder.

"That was beautiful." She said, her eyes searching his. "Thank you for sharing that with me."

Brahms looked at her, slightly leaning closer, and for the first time, she noticed a small, almost imperceptible smile beneath the mask. It was fleeting, but it was there.

"I'll teach you." He said simply, and in those three words, Daphne heard not just an offer, but a promise.

     Brahms adjusted the piano bench to ensure they were both comfortably seated before inviting Daphne to stretch her hands toward the piano.

    Hesitantly, she placed her fingers above the gleaming ivory keys, her hands shaking.

    With a gentle approach, Brahms covered her smaller hands with his, his touch firm yet surprisingly tender, guiding her fingers to the correct positions on the keyboard.

    "We'll start with the basics." He murmured close to her ear, the cold porcelain of his mask touching her cheek and causing a shiver to pass through her. "This is middle C." He explained as he pressed her fingers onto the key, demonstrating the note.

    The warm timbre of his voice, paired with the intimacy of their shared space, had Daphne only have focused on what he was showing her.

    "Now you try." He encouraged, pulling back slightly to give her space to experiment. Daphne pressed the keys tentatively at first, the resulting notes stuttered and uncertain.

    Yet, Brahms remained surprisingly patient, his guidance constant as he corrected her posture and finger placement.

    "Don't worry about the mistakes. Each one teaches you something." He said, a note of pride in his voice that felt like a warm balm.

  The sound of the piano enveloped them, a gentle echo in the large, book-lined room that felt less like a part of the somber mansion and more like a sanctuary.

    The act of teaching, something so nearly mundane, appeared to reach a part of him that Daphne hadn't known existed—a part capable of joy and sharing.

END OF CHAPTER VIII.