?<strong>Chapter 1018:</strong>


    The window was slightly ajar, and through it came the faint,yered hum of others practicing in distant rooms. Carrie had rarely practiced at the Association before. She had assumed that most of the members, confident in their talent and status…


    Carrie had always believed that good music didn’t need to be shy orplex. It simply needed to evoke emotion—to reach the listener’s heart. That was what her grandfather’s music had always done so effortlessly.


    Before she realized it, she had filled sheet after sheet of paper, each covered in revisions, scribbles, and fragments of failed ideas. One by one, she crumpled them and tossed them into the trash bin. But the trash overflowed. Soon, balled-up drafts were spilling onto the floor around her.


    A knock broke the silence. “Carrie, are you still practicing?” came Arion’s voice from the other side of the door.


    Carrie rubbed her aching temples, rising from the bench. “No, I’m done. Let’s go home.”


    She walked to the door and reached to close it behind her, but Arion nced past her at the mess by the piano and said, “No need to shut it. No one elsees in here anyway. I’ll call someone to clean upter.” Then, with a hint of concern, he added, “Are you sure you don’t want to check if you left anything important behind?”


    Carrie nced at the crumpled sheets, the remnants of hours of frustration. “No,” she said quietly. “It’s just a pile of trash.”


    Not far away, hidden just out of view, Aliza stood at the corner—just in time to overhear the tail end of Carrie and Arion’s conversation.


    She hadn’t originally nned toe, but as she drove aimlessly through the city, she suddenly remembered her own uing Music Association assessment. She had already purchased aposition from a top conservatory student, but she wasn’t yet familiar with the piece. Today would be the perfect time to rehearse it.


    Seeing Carrie and Arion exit the building, Aliza waited until they disappeared from view before tiptoeing toward the piano room. Her eyes immediately fell on the crumpled drafts scattered across the floor like forgotten thoughts.


    ncing around and seeing no one nearby, she looked up at the corners of the ceiling—searching for surveince. The Music Association had recently begun upgrading its equipment, and this wing wasn’t considered a high priority. The cameras here had been removed for recement, and since the Morrison family rarely visited, reinstation had been dyed.


    Satisfied she was alone, Aliza slipped inside the practice room. She bent down and picked up one of the discarded sheets. As her eyes scanned the notes, her breath caught.


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    Her grip tightened around the paper. This—this was far better than the expensive score she had purchased.


    She hummed softly, letting the melody flow from her memory, and the notes stirred something in her. It was richer, more emotionally resonant than anything her assigned mentor at the Music Association had given her.


    Could this be Carrie’s work?


    She quickly dismissed the thought. Impossible. Aposition of this level couldn’t be created without years of formal training and experience.


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