Strings And Beats

7.The Echo That Finds Its Way Home

Author POV

If music remembers anything at all, it remembers the people who never stopped loving through it.

Two weeks after the rain soaked studio night, the competition had ended and the applause had faded into memory. Lia stood outside her grandmother’s house with her violin case hanging from her shoulder and a nervous ache inside her chest that felt heavier than any instrument she had ever carried.

The blue walls looked older. The jasmine vine curled lazily near the window, just as it always had. The small brass bell on the door still made the same soft sound whenever the breeze brushed against it.

Nothing had changed.

And yet everything had.

Behind Lia stood Arjun holding his guitar case like it carried more than wood and strings. It carried history. It carried unfinished love. It carried a promise too fragile to drop.

Lia’s POV

My fingers tremble as I raise my hand to knock. My heart beats so hard I am afraid Paati might hear it from inside the house. This is not just a visit. This is not just music.

This is the moment that could either heal her or break her open again.

I lower my hand for a second and look at Arjun.

"This is not just a song," I whisper.
"It is the life she lost."

He nods once, his eyes soft.

"And the love my grandfather never stopped keeping."

I knock.

The door opens slowly.

Meera Kapoor stands there smaller than I remember and yet still strong. Her silver hair is pulled neatly back, and the eyes that once guided my bow across strings now study me with quiet warmth.

"Lia," she says. "You are early."

Then her gaze moves past me.

To Arjun.

To the guitar case.

And something flickers behind her eyes.

Not recognition.

Memory

Meera’s POV

For a moment I think it is another evening. Another ordinary day.

Then the boy steps forward.

Something about him steals my breath.

The way he stands. The quiet confidence. The way he does not rush.

It is foolish. He is too young. Too unfamiliar.

And yet my heart gives a strange, confused flutter.

Like it has heard his footsteps before.

Inside, the house still smells of sandalwood and aging paper. The walls are filled with frozen moments of smiles and celebrations and children growing older in frames.

But one thing does not live here anymore.

Music.

The walls are silent.

The instrument that used to sing in this house has not been seen in years.

They sit at the small table. Meera pours tea with hands that no longer shake over small things.

But this feels too big.

Her eyes never truly leave Arjun.

"You look like someone I used to know," she says quietly.